


The Queen and Her Wildling

by whovian91011



Series: You're My Northern Wind [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dream With Me Folks, F/M, Past Political!Jon, Post Season 8 Reimagine, Slow Burn, not jonerys friendly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2020-03-08 09:36:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 42,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18891973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whovian91011/pseuds/whovian91011
Summary: Spoilers for 8x06"The North remembers" was a phrase often spoken to from one Northerner to another. Sansa Stark's memory was as good as theirs and made good to her vow. The North gained its freedom.A year has passed since that fateful day, and Sansa Stark is now Queen of the North, and in that year, she has done her best to rule as any effective ruler should, with open eyes and heart. However, the time has come for Sansa to marry, to find a husband to provide her with an heir to the throne. Naturally, her people prefer a Northern man while others on her council advise her to look at others from the other six kingdoms as well.Sansa, however, finds herself in agreement with her people. She prefers a Northern man as well, one that has found himself among the Wildlings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so, Jonsa fam, I confess that I really need closure from this season, so I've decided to come up with a fix, at least for me. I hope you guys enjoy this little taste of what's to come!
> 
> Update: I've also added Jaime/Brienne to the relationship tags. I refuse to accept what is canon, so I'm gonna fix that, too, with future updates.

To many, what had once seemed the impossible had become possible. After hundreds of years of servitude, as well as the past several dark recent years, the North was no longer apart of the Seven Kingdoms. The North had finally won its independence.

When she was a little girl, Sansa Stark always desired to become a queen, to wear fancy gowns and be adored by many. Although in her childish heart of hearts, she had not once truly understood the responsibility that a ruler, no less a queen, carried. But in her young mind, she knew of one thing. She would make her people love her, something she continued to strive to do now as Queen of the North.

With her experience of governing the North prior to and after The Long Night, she felt a sense of calm and confidence in her capabilities most befitting a queen, though there were some nights, when alone, she worried if she was doing well by her people, was she meeting their needs. Her first and most important priority was the welfare of the people of the North.

And that was what made this next task particularly troublesome.

Having been engaged once and married twice, Sansa had never given any particular thought to marriage. But as of late, she slowly began to discover that perhaps, one day maybe, she wouldn’t be completely opposed to opening herself up to someone. Of course, she wasn’t the same naïve little girl who looked to the songs of gallant knights who swept young women off their feet, but the idea of intimacy, and not just in the physical sense but as well as emotional, gradually began to grow on her. The idea of marriage, however, she still wasn’t entirely uncomfortable with.

And thus lied her problem.

It had been nearly over a year since the North won its freedom and Sansa’s coronation. Only in recent days did she begin to hear murmured suggestions from her council that she should consider finding a husband – not for him to usurp her rule but to have a natural born heir to the throne. This was a concern she had on her mind for quite some time, but over the course of the year of establishing the North as an independent kingdom and all that came with that, she had no time but to ponder this dilemma.

But now that things were beginning to settle now…

Sighing quietly, Sansa rose from her bed and approached the fire to warm her hands, her expression pensive and concerned. She knew her eligibility was wildly known. Soon enough, there would be suitors arriving at her court, from every house, old and new. She knew all too well their intentions were not of love but for advancement, an alliance. Naturally, that was something to consider, but she had long ago promised herself, were she to ever marry again, it would be for love, not political gain.

Her counsel advised her to accept any men from the other six kingdoms, to keep an open mind of any potential suitors. However, her people strongly preferred for her to marry a Northern man and not for unfounded reasons. There was still lingering resentment for those from King’s Landing, even as centuries old wounds began to heal.

It was eveningfall in Winterfell. Much of the kingdom was already resting, if not preparing for rest. Nights were the most difficult for her. She wished she could simply close her eyes and drift off into sleep, but her mind never ceased in buzzing with a thousand thoughts, beginning with her people and always coming back to her family.

Bran was quickly proving to be an effective king of Westeros and Tyrion a successful hand, which was interesting considering whom he had previously served. Gradually, King’s Landing had been rebuilt from the ground up, beginning with food for the people and tending for any displaced and/or injured from Daenerys’s sacking of King’s Landing. Everything else, the restructuring of buildings and reestablishment of the open markets, came much slower, but it came nevertheless. She was proud of her little brother.

Arya remained on her adventures traveling west of Westeros. It was almost impossible to keep track of her little sister’s adventures. She recalled having read one account of Arya meeting some pirates in Naath and having taken up brief residence with them, much to her dismay. Hopefully with Gendry having joined her, he could help temper her sister’s tendency of finding trouble – though who really knew with those two.

And then there was Jon.

Sansa’s heart ached at just the thought of his name. Wrapping her blankets around her, she gazed steadily into the fire. She and Arya had done their best to fight for him, to have him returned to the North where he belonged, but they had lost. At least Bran had presented them with the option of sending him to the Wall, sparing his life while not exactly pardoning him. She disagreed vehemently with it but at the time agreed it was better than what the Unsullied and Dothraki would have preferred, his death. 

If he ever returned to the North, she intended to pardon him, to hell with everyone else. She was a queen in her own right and had the power. She would pardon him, whether Jon liked it or not. The thought of his possible indignation prompted a reluctant smile to her lips, even as the pain continued inside her chest.

The last she heard about him he had left the Wall to join the Wildings. The last she heard from him was the moment she, Arya, and Bran had bid each other farewell when he had prepared to board the ship setting sail for the Wall. Not once had he written her nor she to him to be fair. She had composed half a dozen letters, perhaps more, yet they remained unsent. She couldn’t find the right words to express herself, which was incredibly irritating seeing as she had never seemed to have the trouble before.

Somehow, Sansa never could express herself completely with Jon, and she suspected the reason why. She had for quite some time now. She loved him. She loved the Northern fool for everything he was, with everything she had. She didn’t care about his lineage, not anymore, not when his life was no longer in peril, at least for the foreseeable future. Sansa loved him and knew, deep down, she couldn’t dream of ever loving another the way she loved him, which made her promise to herself for marrying next only for love far more complicated.

Her people wanted her to marry a Northern man. Sansa wanted very much the same, even though that Northern man was among the wildings now.

But how much longer could she wait for him?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow!! The response to the first chapter has been overwhelming! Thank you guys so much! I love each and every one of you. I'll continue to do my best to reply to each and every one of you <3
> 
> Now I have to make a disclaimer (since I've received some anti-Sansa flack already): This is a very pro Sansa and pro Jonsa fanfic. This is not necessarily a Jonerys/Dany bashing fic, but it's not friendly towards that ship/character either, mostly because... well, canon really. If you hate Sansa/Jonsa etc., then please don't read this fic. I'm open to constructive critcisim but not outright hostility. Thank you
> 
> Now as for the rest of you, I hope you enjoy! :)

After breaking her fast, Sansa dressed with the assistance of her hand maidens before setting out to attend the morning report. The morning report was a brief meeting her advisers, who kept her informed and updated with the daily developments, not just in Winterfell but all the lands in the North. She preferred these daily concise meetings than weekly or even monthly meetings. This way she would always know everything in her kingdom. A good ruler knew her people.

Once the usual financial situations and other obligatory issues which needed addressing were fully discussed, the matter, once again, transitioned to the queen’s marriage. While the Six Kingdoms had agreed that electing a king based on the consensus of the Great Houses in Westeros was sufficient, the people in the North preferred the old ways, establishing a lineage, a true _Northern_ lineage. As much as she desired to put it off, she knew it was time for her to begin looking into the matter further.

Quite a number of Northern houses had come forward with their offers. So far Houses Cerwyn, Hornwood, and Mazins had already come forward with their eldest sons, but as her counsel assured her, there were more offers from the Northern houses still to come. Lord Robyn Arryn of the Vale had also expressed his interest but had yet to make an official offer. Try as she might, Sansa found it difficult to remember him as anything but “Sweetrobin”, although he had grown up considerably the last time she had seen him during the meeting of the Great Houses.

There were also reports of some other offers trickling in from other houses in Westeros. Rumors of a potential offer from House Martell circulated, and Sansa was naturally wary. It was evident Daenerys had some strong ties to the Dornish people, and given the hostile reactions to Jon’s banishment to the Night's Watch from those from the Iron Islands, the remainder of the Dothraki, and the Unsullied, she hoped these rumors were just that, rumors.

Several offers from notable houses from the Reach arrived, as well as those from Riverlands and even a few from the Stormlands. No offers came from the Iron Islands, which was just as well. They would sooner cut her throat then see Sansa as queen for much longer. She suspected they laid part of the blame of what happened to the dragon queen on her, just as much as the Dothraki and Unsullied, of that much she was certain. If any offers were to come from the Iron Islands, they would automatically be refused. Even though she had long forgiven Theon and missed him dearly, his sister Yara had been quite vocal in her bitterness towards Jon. It wouldn’t surprise her if she would encourage a proposal from one of the Iron Islands as an opportunity for her assassination.

With the knowledge that more offers were to come, Sansa claimed she would meet them all, but naturally, she would meet the Northern men first. Her counsel agreed with her that was the most beneficial way of handling of the suitors. The meeting concluded with plans of making the appropriate arrangements – letters of invitation, proper accommodations, etcetera – to ensure the wellbeing and comfort of their expectant guests.

Normally, no one left until the monarch left the room first, but Sansa had dismissed with a kind smile, desiring to be alone. Once she was alone, save for the guards standing just outside the throne room, the smile slipped away.

Downing the rest of her goblet’s contents, she rose from her throne and made the brief journey towards the window, where she could gaze out towards the town square. The sight of children playing warmed her heart. She felt a slight twinge of envy at their innocence, having lost that innocence a long time ago. She would do everything in the power that no child, especially no little girl, would ever have to suffer through the abrupt loss of innocence again.

And then she turned back to her throne. In her mind, the throne was replaced by a long table and chairs. She saw herself sitting at the table in her furs and gowns but with no crown, gazing up at the man who had been just declared King of the North, even though he bore no crown himself. From that moment on, she believed the two of them were a unit, united against the tyranny of King’s Landing and all the suffering they had caused the North. Back before he had departed Winterfell seeking allies for the fight against The Night King and the armies of the dead. Before he had met _her_.

It hadn’t been until her talk with Daenerys herself Sansa had realized what Jon had done. When he first brought the dragon queen to Winterfell, she had feared he had fallen for her. Who wouldn’t? The fair headed woman had been extremely beautiful, charming, and powerful, perhaps to a fault. When the self-declared queen had posed that very question of “ _now who manipulated whom_ ” seeing as how she was now there to fight “Jon’s war”, the realization had sparked inside her. She knew Jon hadn’t loved her, not really. He was performing his duty for his people, even if it cost him his crown, everything.

Releasing a shaky breath, Sansa closed her eyes. When she opened them again, there was no long table, nor anyone seated at the table. All that remained was her throne, a beautifully crafted throne made by Northern craftsmen for her honor. The direwolf engravings matched the twin direwolves on her crown. As gorgeous and breathtaking as the throne was, it was a solitary chair. No other chair sat beside her. It stood alone, as she stood alone.

Often, Sansa thought of her mother and wondered what she felt whenever her father left Winterfell for a period of time. Did she hold her breath in his absence, incapable of breathing until he returned? Catelyn Stark was a strong woman. She conducted herself as such, overseeing Winterfell while raising six children, though Jon she had hardly considered as her own. She wondered what her mother would think of her now and longed to hear her mother’s words of encouragement, any words of wisdom and advice to help her through this time of her life, and not just the impending arrival of suitors.

It was with this thought in mind she decided to visit the weirwood, the very place her father often visited whenever presented with a difficult task or simply seeking guidance from the old gods. Informing the guards of where she was heading, she only made a brief stop to her quarters for her extra fur cloak before stepping out of the castle, greeting everyone kindly that she passed. No one prevented her from going where she intended to go; they understood all too well where she was heading. The weirwood provided much comfort to those seeking guidance. Sansa hoped to find the answers to her troubles there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is a Jon POV chapter ;)
> 
> Update: A big thanks for my friend Kat, for offering to be my beta! You're an angel!


	3. Chapter 3

The early morning sun rose steadily over the horizon. Watching from his mount, Jon Snow observed the act with a faint sense of peace, which hadn’t come easy to him, especially over the course of the past year.

Abandoning the Nights’ Watch, Jon and Tormund had lead the group of wildlings, the free folk, to return to life beyond the Wall – which in truth was no longer a wall but large, open archway. Anyone could travel to and from it with relative ease, which was the route they had taken. There wasn’t anything left for the Nights’ Watch to protect the realm against, and he suspected everyone, including those who voted for and against his taking the black, had known that as well.

In his heart, Jon Snow, or rather Aegon Targaryen, knew in his heart of hearts the North would forever be a part of him. The North was in his blood, in his bones. There was no other place he imagined himself living, whether in exile or not. He was happy to live among the free folk – despite everything that had happened in his life up to that point, living amongst the Wildlings had been the happiest he had ever been. Although he was rather reluctant to receive the unofficial title as King Beyond the Wall, he’d accepted it, not for his own sake but for the welfare of the free folk. They were his people now. They were the spirit of the North. He owed them that much.

He could only hope he would serve as righteously as Mance Rayder.

It was interesting how things managed to come full circle for him. Now that he knew his true identity, his lineage, Jon chose to ignore it. He might have been a Targaryen by birth, but he was also a Stark. The North was still in his blood, coupled with the blood of the dragon. He knew where his loyalties and love lied.

Over the course of his first year, the free folk had become like his family, but there remained a certain distance as any that existed between a ruler and his people, even though there was no true sense of monarchy among them. And it was in these moments of realization, he recalled the memory of his family with a dull ache in his heart.

The last of the Starks, that’s what they were. Bran, the youngest yet the wisest of them all, now sat on the remains of the Iron Throne, ruler of the Six Kingdoms, bearing the weight of his responsibilities with no pride but with a calm determination. Then there was Arya, the second youngest, the spitfire, the girl now woman who openly defied any and all expectations over the course of her life, turned explorer of whatever lied west of Westeros – though from the last letter he had received from her, she had somehow found her way into Naath. He looked forward to hearing more about that story.

And then there was Sansa.

The ache inside his chest intensified, nearly taking his breath. Jon clicked his tongue and pressed the reins to his mount, turning him around so that he could gallop down the hill to rejoin his people. 

Contrary to popular belief, Jon had not loved Daenerys Targaryen, not in the way many had believed – not in the way Sansa had asked at her question of why he had bent the knee in the first place. He had done what needed to be done, although not at any point did he actually bend the knee to the dragon queen, not really. With the threat of the Night King and his army of the undead, he had needed her power and her armies and even her dragons for the North’s survival. He had no faith in Cersei’s promises of sending a Lannister army to their aid, which of course she hadn’t. 

The last time he ever saw Cersei wasn’t at the dragon pit. He’d found her body in what was once the small council’s meeting room, with her brother Jaime standing over her body, the dagger in his hand dripping with blood. Not once removing his gaze from the prone form of his sister, the Kingslayer had remarked wryly, _“I suppose they can call me kinslayer as well as kingslayer now.”_

Jon understood that title all too well, having committed the act himself not long after.

How had he managed to lose himself so completely in the process? He absolutely loathed it, having been reduced to the stubborn repetition of a brainless lackey: “she’s our queen”, “I don’t want the crown,” and “she’s not her father.” But he did what he must, even if it damned him in the eyes of some of the most powerful peoples in Westeros. It didn’t matter to him. She wouldn’t have stopped. She wouldn’t have stopped conquering, not until the world was how she thought it should be. Tyrion had been right.

And so he had done it.

_“Don’t you have faith in me at all?”_

Those words still haunted him even after all this time. Gods, how badly had Jon wanted to confess to Sansa, to tell her of his intentions, that he hadn’t been in love with the dragon queen, that he would always put the North first, even if it meant giving up his crown? What he had said at the dragon pit during the meeting hadn’t been a lie. He couldn’t serve under two queens, not when he only loved one.

Not matter how many times it played through his mind, Jon couldn’t deny that Sansa had betrayed his confidence when she had informed Tyrion of his true lineage. When she asked if he could ever forgive her at the docks, he had remained silent and evaded her question, and by gods, how he wished he had just answered her then. But he couldn’t bring himself to lie to her. He understood why she had done it, both then and now. She had done it with his best interests at heart as well as for the North and the rest of Westeros – clearly, she had seen what many others could not, what had taken him far longer to see, the destruction and chaos.

He understood her intentions. But nevertheless, it was still a betrayal. It was something he had struggled with, and his time among the free folk had helped him muddle his way through it. However, his notable absence from Winterfell for the past year was harder to determine in helping him. He hadn’t just avoided Winterfell to avoid the spark of another war with those kingdoms loyal to Dany. He hadn’t been able to face Sansa for some time, and it all but broke his heart.

At first, he thought it would out of sight, out of mind, but as it turned out, she was only out of sight. He hadn’t known what to do with that nor did he still.

The closer he approached camp, he was able to see preparations being made to break their fasts. The tantalizing scents of fried meet had his mouth watering, but he made sure to take proper care of his stallion before even thinking of accepting a plate of food from one of the cooks.

Having a successful hunt the night before, there was plenty of meat to be passed around. That along with ale Tormund and a few hand selected men had “procured” from a neighboring village, though Jon had been very stern in how they went about acquiring their conquests. He had no tolerance for raping and pillaging. They would use stealth or not take anything at all. It seemed they respected him enough to heed his word, at least for now. Never underestimate the free folk and their anarchist tendencies.

With his mount unsaddled and properly taken care of, Jon released him to the care of one of the free folk’s better horsemen and headed towards the camp, his stomach rumbling quietly in anticipation for food. He was half way to the center when a conversation gave him pause.

“… and then there’s the queen of the North,” the words of male wildling reached him, all but halting Jon’s movement. “Never thought I’d live to see the day that the North breaks away from the cunt of King’s Landing.”

“You do know there’s a king, not a queen right?” came another voice, whether male or female Jon couldn’t quite ascertain.

The male wilding scoffed. “Whatever. It’s all the same. Anyway, word’s going around she’s beginning to meet suitors.”

“Who?”

“What do you mean ‘who’?”

“The cunt of King’s Landing or the queen of the North?”

The male wilding cursed in exasperation. “The bloody Northern queen, you fuck!”

“Your story telling skills are awful.”

“Anyway,” the male wilding went on emphatically, “she’s accepting offers to meet with suitors. Because you know she needs their seed to make more spawn. What are the chances she’d take me?”

Upon closer inspection, the other member of the conversation was indeed in fact male, older and far less scruffier than the wildling he was talking to. The older wildling’s head dropped back as he laughed. “In your fucking dreams, you coot. Like Sansa Stark would ever settle for the likes of you.”

Offended, the young man sniffed, “You’d be surprised. That redhead would love to wet my cock with her cu–”

Before he could even finish, Jon descended upon him, as quiet as a shadow, and hauled the wildling to his feet. He slammed him against a nearby stone and was satisfied by the fool’s hissing wince.

Jon, vaguely aware of the sudden lack of camp activity, glowered and refused to break his hold. “How dare you speak of the queen with such… _vulgarity_.”

The wildling swallowed hard, his pitiful attempt at defiance failing as his cheeks enflamed. “There wasn’t anything wrong with…”

Jon slammed him against the stone again, not caring as the man’s head bounced off with stone with a resounding thunk. “It is in your best interest,” he remarked through gritted teeth, “for you to never utter the name Sansa Stark in my presence again. Better yet, do not say her name at all. Do you understand me?”

The wilding’s face reddened in indignation. He opened and closed his mouths repeatedly until he managed to choke out, “I can say whatever the f…. _FUCK_.”

Jon’s punch landed directly solar plexus, right at the center of his chest, causing the wilding to double over, but he held him up regardless. “Do you understand me?” he repeated, much more loudly this time.

Groaning, the wildling nodded reluctantly, gasping for air. Jon released him then, watching in disregard as he dropped to the ground in a graceless heap.

He was just about to turn around when Jon hear him utter, “Go to your whore and be done with it.”

In a flash, Jon bounded towards him when he felt restraining arms wrapping around him. “Let me go,” he snarled, struggling against the viselike grip, which didn’t lessen even as he demanded.

“Aye, I believe I won’t do that until we’re well out of wee Willy’s sight,” came Tormund Giantsbane’s rough remark, grunting with effort to keep a hold of him. Turning his attention to Willy’s companion, he remarked, “See that he doesn’t bugger off. We’re gonna have a little talking with the bastard.”

The older wildling nodded wearily. “Aye. He’s full of his cups again. I’d say it was the ale talking, but you know Willy.”

“Aye, now get him the fuck out of here.”

Once the two wildlings were out of sight, Tormund all but hauled Jon towards his tent, his grip lessening only when he felt it was safe the king beyond the wall wouldn’t go breaking another one down to hunt down the little fuck.

“You’re a true Wildling, you know that,” Tormund remarked cheekily, more than a hint of pride his voice.

Jon merely grunted in response, his blood still hot and pounding from the confrontation. He was cooling off but not quickly enough to completely dismiss the idea of cutting out Willy’s tongue and feeding it to Ghost.

“You know,” Giantsbane remarked innocently once they were alone, “Mance never liked it when another wildling male made a pass at his wife either.”

If Jon had heard the comment, he gave no sign that he did. Instead, he reached for a pitcher and poured some water for himself, his previous hunger forgotten.


	4. Chapter 4

Before Sansa knew it, the meeting of her suitors had begun, at least the Northern ones. Well-made preparations in anticipation of their arrival made the experience all the more bearable. All right, perhaps bearable wasn’t quite the word the queen would use, but the planning and hard work of her council as well as servants made her proud to be their queen. The rest of the people seemed excited as well, if the daily reports from her version of “master of whispers” were to be believed. She took it to heart that her people were happy, so she must see this through.

Winterfell was ready, but she wasn’t quite sure if she was.

Over the course several weeks, Sansa met with each eligible male from every northern house. Naturally, she remained courteous and kind, even though the vast majority of the men either bored her to tears, tried to hard, or were possessed a sense of thinly veiled patronizing tone – the latter of which she quickly dismissed right away, sensing their only interest in her was the throne. The others, unfortunately, she had to continue muddling through.

She wrote about each and every one of these in a letter, expressing her dismay and mortification of the most extreme cases. Upon reading her own words, she found herself chuckling. Anyone who read this would find themselves easily amused and sympathetic to her plight, at least she hoped they would feel sympathy. She would’ve as well, if she weren’t the one living it.

She forced smiles at truly terrible attempts at witty remarks but made sure the smiles didn’t appear so. Her hands sometimes were drenched in the occasional slobbering kiss, which was difficult for her to discreetly wipe them clean on her gown, under such scrutiny. Unfortunately, Lord Hugo Hornwood fell into this category, that among a series of other events she preferred not to revisit, not even in her own mind. Lets just say his perpetual… flatulence was quite off-putting.

However, in spite of the multiple failed encounters, Sansa discovered three favorites among the Northern houses thus far: Lord Edmund Cerwyn of House Cerwyn, Lord James Mazin of House Mazin, and Lord Daniel Rockwood of House Rockwood. The last of the three came from a relatively young House, having only been around for less than a century as word would have it, but as her advisors assured her, the Rockwoods held significant promise.

Lord Edmund Cerwyn was the eldest of three siblings, the younger of the three being his sisters. Upon first impression, Sansa observed with mild interest that he was very handsome, his smile bright and charming. He was kind and courteous to her during their first meeting, and he had charmed her enough to prompt a second visit, a walk through the castle and the town square. 

He somehow managed to find a rose and presented it to her, a “winter rose for a winter queen.” Blushing, she accepted the rose graciously and kept pace with him as they resumed their walk. She very much enjoyed their conversations of literature and music and knew that she would have a very strong ally in Lord Edmund. But to her he would forever remain Lord Edmund to her, despite their mutual interests and their budding comradery. However, she allowed the door open to him, metaphorically speaking. 

Next came Lord James Mazin, the eldest of seven siblings, with one younger sister and the rest brothers. After initial introductions, Sansa immediately expressed her condolences for his sister, sympathizing with a young woman who had to grow up around so many men. Lord James took the remark as it was intended and laughed good-naturedly, expressing his own sympathies as well as admitting it would be rather difficult to find his sister a good match with them around, but if Sansa were to become his wife, his sister would have someone to vent to. _Oh, he is good_ , Sansa thought to herself with a smile not at all forced. He was very good indeed. 

On their second encounter, she and Lord James dined together in the main hall but only for the two of them. He brought a wine with him, a gift from his House, promising of its wonderful taste that excited the tongue. Accepting a glass with some caution, Sansa inhaled the scent, swirling it around gently before taking a small sip. Her eyes lit up at the taste. He hadn’t been wrong in his description and praised the wine. They settled into a conversation easily in which he described how some of his brothers desired to take to the sea. Naturally, this made her think of Arya, and she remarked that if his brothers were serious about it, she might have some recommendations for them. Lord James thanked her warmly and assured her they were, though he jested if they weren’t, he would consider boxing their ears for making a liar out of him to the queen. Sansa hid her smile behind her goblet as she took another sip from her wine. Lord James was very good.

Yet another door to remain open.

And then finally Lord Daniel Rockwood. To be perfectly honest, Sansa had no idea what to expect from him, having only become familiar with House Rockwood around the day of her coronation and hardly anything after. An only child, the entire future of House Rockwood rested heavily on his shoulders, but when met in person, one wouldn’t see him as a man burdened with the entire future of his House. In fact, it seemed as if he had no care in the world. 

Normally, Sansa would’ve been put off by such a cavalier attitude, but the way that he carried himself in all other manners intrigued her. He moved at his own pace, slow yet purposeful and with the grace of a cat. His casualness was misleading. Confident, calm, and comfortable in his own skin, Lord Daniel Rockwood was a mystery, and being a curious mind, Sansa found herself wanting to learn more.

Their second meeting was quite another surprise. Somehow, he had devised a scheme without her knowledge to transform the main hall into a ball room, with chairs and tables miraculously scarce. She should’ve been offended by the audacity, but when he bowed low at the waist and asked her hand to indulge him in a dance, she couldn’t find it in herself to say no, accepting his hand to join him on the cleared dancefloor. 

She wasn’t surprised to discover Lord Daniel was a remarkable dancer, the first time she could claim such a thing. One dance turned into five, each changing in steps and tempo. He swept her around the dancefloor, complimenting her dancing skills and continuing to charm her throughout the evening. By the time she returned to her chambers, she was breathless and exhilarated, her pale face flushed from dancing. She always loved to dance.

Lord Daniel Rockwood’s door also remained open, for the foreseeable future.

There were still other Northern men she had to meet, though not by a considerable amount. Once she met them all, she would extend invitations to the other offers from Westeros, mostly as a courtesy. Even if she discovered no one of interest from Westeros, at least she could count on these three gentlemen. All three of them would make very good husbands, and any woman alive would be lucky to have them.

But none of those men were Jon.

Sighing heavily, Sansa prepared herself for bed, her mind racing too wildly for sleep to come. After half a goblet of wine by the fire, she slipped into her bed, resting her braided head onto the feather stuffed pillow and closed her eyes. The last image in her mind was of Jon’s face before she finally drifted off.

\---

It was growing late in the evening, the sun having descended long ago, though there were still traces of light in the sky. A man dressed in neutral colors remained on horseback, his dark eyes observing the area around him. His mount snorted and stomped at the snow crusted earth, impatient to continue on the road. He adjust his grip on the reins and murmured words of encouragement. They would soon be on their way, if only the person they were waiting for would show themselves.

They had been waiting for quite some time, far much longer than his mount agreed with. However, the rider remained calm. He was a patient man. He could stand to wait a few more hours. After that, however, he would take his business elsewhere.

It wasn’t until his mount’s ears flickered forward did the man brace himself. Their company had finally arrived.

The new arrival was at first a grey blur. As they drew closer, he was able to make out the vaguest figure of a cloaked individual. It wasn’t until they stopped a few feet from them and drew back their cloak, he received a better look.

“I wasn’t expecting a woman,” he remarked, observing her curiously, with no hint of malice or distrust in his cool gaze.

The woman smiled enigmatically. “We never expect a lot of things, but the unexpected has its own benefits, wouldn’t you say?”

His dark eyes observed her shrewdly, remarking cautiously, “I suppose.”

“Are you prepared for the journey ahead?”

Gesturing to his bags strapped to his saddle, the man nodded. “I have everything you suggested I bring. All except one item of course.”

Nodding approvingly, the woman clicked her horse forward so that they were side by side, her horse facing south while his faced north. She procured a long, elegant dagger from her robes, wrapped in expensive cloth to protect the holder from its sharp edges.

The man accepted the dagger and unfolded the cloth himself. He made sure his grip on the hilt was firm before raising the blade at eye level. The dagger was exquisitely made, designed by a talented blacksmith. A large ruby was embedded into the pommel, a dark blood red. Appropriate under the circumstances, he thought to himself before wrapping up the dagger and securing it into his empty holster.

The woman never removed her gaze from him. “Is it your satisfaction?”

“It is.”

“Then you know what you must do.”

“Of course.”

With a nod, she adjusted the reins in her grip, her horse shifting underneath her, preparing for the evening journey. “May the gods favor you. Dracarys.”

“Dracarys,” he echoed solemnly. He watched as she rode off into the night and then, with the reassuring pressure of the dagger at his side, kicked his horse into a trot, setting out for Winterfell at an almost leisurely pace. He had the time to spare.

And of course, any sort of suspicion was highly discouraged.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have Ser Darick Merlyn cast as Aidan Turner, because what a babe.

After what felt like years off her life, Sansa felt immediate relief to learn her final suitor awaited her. She hadn’t received nearly as many offers from Westeros as she had from the North and areas around the North, understandably, but still, she had received more than she had expected. After meeting this one, she could focus her attention on the three Northern men that she was the fondest of, though she could never think upon them as fondly as the former king of the North…

Shaking her head to force the thoughts aside, the queen rounded the corner towards the throne room, nodding imperceptibly for the guard to open the door. She walked towards her throne and took her seat, her fingers unconsciously tracing the intricately crafted ridges of the direwolves along the arms.

Once the members of her council and knights of her queen’s guard were accounted for, Sansa announced, “You may bring him in, Ser Dunlin,” with a ready smile. Ser Liam Dunlin was the lord commander of her queen’s guard, at the recommendation of Brienne of Tarth, her formerly sworn sword. 

When Bran had been voted as the new king of Westeros, Sansa had discussed the matter with Brienne privately and requested that she remained in King’s Landing, along with Podrick, to serve in Bran’s king’s guard. At first Ser Brienne had insisted that her place was beside Sansa, to protect her, but Sansa had insisted further, claiming there was no one she trusted more with her brother’s life. Besides, there was also Jaime, who no matter what she said, wasn’t exactly welcomed in the North, even though he had fought beside them against the Night King. This line of reasoning caused Brienne to reluctantly agree, though Sansa noted, pleasantly surprised, she agreed with a faint blush in her cheeks.

A few moments later, Ser Dunlin returned to the throne room with a man not far behind him. He possessed Ser Dunlin’s physic, broad shoulders, muscular build, but he was a good few inches shorter than her lord commander, though that hardly meant his presence didn’t command attention. He had an almost olive complexion to him, his eyes dark and intriguing. Complimenting his complexion was his thick dark curls, practically a midnight black. Sansa found herself wanting to go to him and see if those curls were as wild as they looked.

“Your grace, may I introduce you to Ser Darick of House Merlyn from the Iron Islands,” one of her advisors intoned, having stepped forward to make the introductions.

Sansa inclined her head in a graceful nod and observed Ser Darick as he bowed low at the waist. “I’m honored, your grace,” Ser Darick remarked. The deep, baritone of his voice surprised her, yet it was all too fitting for him.

Then he slowly lifted his gaze to meet her own, a subtle act of boldness that she didn’t find unappealing. In fact, there was something charming about it.

“The honor is mine, Ser Darick,” Sansa replied, “though I am surprised by your presence here.”

Straightening himself to full height, her potential suitor’s brows furrowed slightly. “And why is that, your grace, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Sansa held back a smile. She didn’t mind. “Mostly because I understand the Iron Islands have held strong allegiance to the late Targaryen queen. Practically every noble house had sworn allegiance to her, thanks to Yara and Euron Greyjoy.”

“Much of what you say is true, your grace, but I’ve learned not to judge people based on a collective of beliefs of the many,” he said, his voice as deep and velvety as silk.

Curious despite herself, the queen asked, “You come from House Merlyn, one of the noble houses from the Iron Islands. In fact, House Merlyn is one of the primary house sworn to Pyke, is it not?”

“It is, your grace.”

“I can only imagine what your family must think of your arrival here.”

“So can I, considering I left the details in a letter announcing my intentions.”

Sansa’s lips twitched, her amusement warring with incredulity. “You informed your family in a letter.”

Ser Darick nodded. “Naturally, otherwise they would’ve attempted to marry me off to the next Ironborn wench the first chance they got. Pardon my language, your grace.”

“And what, pray tell, inspired you to right such a letter?”

“Before the dragon queen first set foot in Westeros, tales of her and her dragons had found their way into the Iron Islands, much of which was thanks to Euron Greyjoy who wanted nothing more than to rule all of Westeros with dragons at his disposal. As the rumors circulated, more and more Ironborn houses found themselves admiring her and preparing to swear allegiance to her and her cause. Even my family, as stubborn and obstinate to change as they are, began to take a liking to her and the possibility of a new future. But I did not.”

She saw no hint of deception in his face, nor heard anything in his voice. “Why not? The Iron Islands have been at odds with King’s Landings for many years. I’m sure the news of someone who wished to ‘break the wheel’ should’ve pleased you.”

Ser Darick smiled faintly. “Once a conqueror, always a conqueror. I don’t believe our interests ultimately aligned with hers, but I suppose that’s just my opinion.” Relaxing his stance, a bit, he continued, his hands comfortably crossed behind his back, “When it came to a vote within my house, I was outvoted in swearing allegiance to her. Euron was pleased.”

“I can imagine.”

“But Euron Greyjoy was slain by Ser Jaime, was he not?”

The room was so quiet the sound of a pin falling to the floor could’ve been heard. Sansa realized vaguely that unlike her introductions to her other suitors, her advisors and council were observing them without a single whispering or comment. 

She didn’t allow herself the time to consider what that meant. Instead, she found herself asking, “Does family loyalty mean so little to you?” It was a question she needed to ask, even though she could hardly fault him for going against them in this case. However, no matter the cause, it was still vaguely unsettling for one to go against one’s family, no matter the justification. Still, Sansa understood that not everyone was as fortunate to grow up in a family like the Starks and knew it would do her well to keep that in mind.

“I love my family very much, as any son would, as any brother or cousin or next of kin,” Darick spoke emphatically. “I would do anything for them, as I’m sure you would do for yours. But it wasn’t in the beset interest of my family or my people to follow the dragon queen.” He took a step forward, all too aware of Ser Dunlin’s suddenly rigid posture not far from him, his gaze not once leaving Sansa’s, who allowed the movement. “May I ask you a question, your grace?”

The queen’s gaze turned wary, curious. “Depends on the question.”

Ser Darick dared another step forward and paused, as if silently asking for her permission. When she didn’t protest, he took another step more and then stopped, knowing and understanding boundaries particularly well. He liked to push boundaries but never cross them, it appeared. “My question to you is this: after sacking King’s Landing, would she have stopped?” His voice became soft, but in the quiet throne room, it was near deafening. “Do you believe she would’ve stopped?”

 _No, she wouldn’t_ , Sansa thought. Not for one moment had she believed Daenerys capable restraint. Even though it was in the past now, it had only been only a little over a year since the sacking of King’s Landing, and the wounds were still fresh, for both sides. She knew that any answer she gave him, any truthful answer, would find its way into the wrong ears and stir up trouble. And Sansa was tired of fighting – but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t protect her people.

“I don’t believe you came to me to discuss Daenerys Targaryen,” she commented instead. “Tell me, what exactly are your intentions here?”

Ser Darick smiled briefly, admiring her political ingenuity before formulating a response. “I’ve come to Winterfell to prove myself worthy of you, your grace. I know how important your people are to you, how important it is for you to take a Northern husband. But even with all these pressures and concerns, I’ve come here anyway, without the support of my house, perhaps even my own people, because I felt compelled to meet the woman who saved the North from further tyranny. And once again forgive my tongue, but I must say this. You’re a hell of a woman, your grace. How can any man resist?”

Despite maintain her composure, Sansa felt a blush blossoming along her cheeks. She cleared her throat lightly before asking, “And how exactly do you intend to prove yourself to me, Ser Darick?”

“By becoming a member of your queen’s guard,” he bowed his head deferentially, “if you’ll have me, your grace.”

Surprised, Sansa asked, “You wish to become a member of my queen’s guard?”

Ser Darick lifted his eyes to hers. “Yes, your grace. Ask your advisors. They know all of my background. I’ve fostered with some of the best houses in Westeros when my father recognized my desire to be a knight. And I’ve experience with leading men to battle on sea as well, as I’m sure your advisors also might have mentioned. I know I have what it takes to protect you, against any and all threats that ever come your way. I hope you’ll consider me.”

But from the look in his eyes, Sansa knew he hoped for more than that, and despite herself, her heart skipped a beat. This Ser Darick was a truly charming, eloquent, sincere man. And that was trouble enough.

“I will consider it,” she acquiesced.

“Thank you, your grace.”

After a few more minutes of conversation, Sansa rose and dismissed her court, all the while thinking of Ser Darick’s offer. She was inclined to give him a chance, having learned of his impressive skills and experience with a sword from one of her advisors. The gods knew she needed as much protection as she could get.

And if Ser Darick could prove himself in this capacity, perhaps he could be a possible contender for her to consider. 

Throughout the day, Sansa found her thoughts periodically straying back to Darick Merlyn. And she only thought of Jon once.

 _This was good_ , she reminded herself. Wasn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long delay in updating! Work has been a little crazy - children and summer reading program chaos, fun chaos but chaos nevertheless.
> 
> Jon will be receiving an unexpected visitor in the next chapter ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this fic has been incredible! I want to thank each and every one of you for all of your support by giving kudos, bookmarks, subs, and comments! I really love you all.
> 
> But please don't antagonize each other in the comments. I wanted to address one comment that bothered me - mainly with the introduction of the Aidan Turner OC. We can all be Jonsa fans and Sansa supporters, and honestly, in my opinion, I believe Jon needs a little competition. If you don't like that, then you shouldn't read this fic. 
> 
> As for the rest of you, I hope you continue to enjoy this story!

Raiding and pillaging were the ways of the past. Under Jon’s rule, while seemingly unofficial considering the Free Folk’s collective appreciation for anarchy, he made sure that no single hair on any villager was harmed in the retrieval of goods from the places they visited. It was less of a retrieval and more of an exchange of goods, a relatively new system that actually appeared to be doing relatively well. 

Of course, there were some missteps that needed to be addressed, mostly on the part of his people – trying to take something without giving something in exchange, but other times it was the villager that attempted to stiff one of his barterers simply for the fact the mindset of wildlings as being “uncouth, stupid barbarians” still existed. In such instances, Jon would intervene, assuring the villager in that instance that if he did not agree with the exchange, he would gladly look away while his man dealt with him in a manner that he deemed appropriate. Needless to say, those instances were resolved rather quickly.

While most of his days were filled with settling feuds and ensuring the welfare of his people, the king of the wildlings had his moments were he felt alone. He wasn’t entirely certain why; the Free Folk were his family, and they were just as much a part of him without sharing his blood. But even then he knew he was lying to himself. As much as the Free Folk were his family, he knew very well they couldn’t replace what he had while growing up in Winterfell nor those who remained living after the War of the Five Kings, petty, pollical rivalries, and the battle with the Night King.

It was a little over a year now. Perhaps it was time he…

A fluttering of wings drew Jon away from his thoughts. He looked up at the sound of shrill raven’s caw. Small, dark, and agile, the bird flew directly towards him with such unusual purpose he could hardly believe his eyes. 

The last time he had seen a raven trained so well it had belonged to the Old Bear in the Night’s Watch, and that raven could talk. It had been that raven who had, upon the vote of the new Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, flown to him and perched heavily on his shoulder, declaring him Lord Commander. But then there was also that hawk controlled by one of the Free Folk that had attacked him and had nearly taken out his eye. Needless to say, he had complicated relationships with birds.

Instead of landing near the destination cages, it glided directly towards his tent. Jon stepped quickly to the side and watched as it soared inside and made itself comfortably perched on the back of his chair. Its dark, beady-eyed gaze turned to him, disturbingly assessing in a way that was almost… humanlike.

Taking a cautious step forward, Jon watched the raven watching him. He then noted the parchment tied to its leg and broke off the standoff to retrieve the message. Keeping a close eye on the raven, he gently undid the thin rope from its leg, letting it fall to the table when he had the parchment in his hands. He glanced at the bird again, which continued to regard him with determined eyes.

“You’re a curious little bugger, aren’t you?” he murmured. At this the raven gave a quiet little croaking noise which felt as if it held a touch of irony. 

Shaking his head, Jon unrolled the parchment. As he began to read, his face grew ashen.

Jon,

I apologize for the manner in which this news has been delivered, but I had no choice. A dream came to me a few nights passed. I put ink to parchment as soon as I was able, but I fear this letter won’t arrive as promptly as I would like, which is in part of the reason I sent this raven to you, upon entering his mind to provide him some guidance. 

Sansa’s life is in danger. I’m afraid I can’t get into further details, on the chance this letter may fall into the wrong hands. I can’t identify anyone involved in the plot for that very reason, but what I can tell you there is a plot to take her life, in part if not completely in deference to the memory of the late Targaryen queen. 

You must return to Winterfell at once at the first opportunity. I have dispatched a letter to Arya with a similarly worded message. As a favor to me, you must burn this letter the moment you read it. And you mustn’t breathe a word about this to anyone, least of all Sansa. We don’t wish to alert the persons involved we are aware of their plot.

I know this is a lot to ask of you, but I believe we both know that your feelings for Sansa runs deeper than familial duty. You will do everything in your power to ensure her safety, including risking your life for hers. I have faith in you that you will everything in your power to make sure this doesn’t come to pass.

May the gods favor you,

Bran

Jon stared at the words until they became unfocused. Blinking, he read them again, making sure that what he read wasn’t wrong. He felt sick, absolutely sick. For several moments, he remained frozen to the spot, hardly able to breathe. With a slight tremor in his hands, he light a candle and held up the parchment to the flame, watching as edges curled and burned. The parchment fell to the table and burned until there was nothing left, except a scorch mark.

Fear combatted with slow building fury. Jon knew very well about Bran being the Three-Eyed Raven, about his visons. His younger brother knew all and saw all. He could only pray to the gods that this vision wouldn’t come to pass.

Without a moment to lose, Jon stormed out of his tent, practically like a bat out of hell. He nearly knocked over a few of the Free Folk but hadn’t the time to apologize nor the energy. Everything came to a focus at just one name. Sansa.

He had his favored horse saddled and prepared for the journey ahead when Tormund approached him.

“Where are you off to?” he demanded while taking a hearty bite from an apple, most likely a stolen one.

“Winterfell,” Jon gritted out while adjusting the strap of his saddle.

Tormund’s mouth fell upon and bits of apple fell out. He let loose a surprised cheer, which quickly died away at the look Jon gave him. He sobered quickly at the angry, grim expression on his face. “What’s going on?”

Jon grimaced. “I can’t speak of it to anyone, but it’s serious, serious enough that I have to see to the matter myself.”

“The hell you are!” Tormund all but bellowed. He wiped away the remains of the apple from his mouth. “I’ll gather the Free Folk. We should be ready to leave at once.”

Jon shook his head. “I can’t ask that of any of you.”

The wildling remarked quietly, “Jon, need I remind you that you’re still a wanted man. The day we let a dragon queen loyalist take a hit on you is the day you suddenly find yourself with a much larger cock. So, get your arse into the saddle and head off for Winterfell. We shan’t be far behind you.”

Throat tightening with emotion, Jon nodded jerkily, unable to speak. Sensing this, Tormund nodded solemnly and squeezed his shoulder, then stepped back as Jon got into the saddle.

Before he set out, Jon caught onto Tormund’s parting words to him, “Go protector your woman.”

Jon urged his mount off, quickly urging him into a gallop. The sooner her arrived at Winterfell, the odds of protecting Sansa increased.

In spite of everything, Jon was willing to risk it all to protect her, even if he didn’t realize the trouble that awaited him in Winterfell.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay!! I've been busy with work, but here is another chapter!

For the past several days, Sansa found herself developing a routine of sorts. After her meetings with her council, she would find herself in the company of one of her suitors before gradually being in the company of another later in the day. 

Lord Edmund provided immensely enjoyable conversation, but she suspected they both knew that there was nothing romantic between them. She even hinted at this during one of their walks outside of the castle. He wasn’t in the least surprised and actually agreed with her, though he did make a good point that a strong friendship between husband and wife was a strong foundation for a successful reign.

Still, the queen knew she would have to cut him loose but knew in her gut he would remain an invaluable friend and ally to her and Winterfell. He was a Northern son after all.

Lord James Mazin was… quite a character. One that Sansa found endlessly amusing and enjoyed immensely. In a former life, he must have been the court fool but a talented one. His dramatically and hilariously performed antecedes never ceased to make her laugh to the point of near tears. It was impossible for him to walk into a room and not create a stir with one of his outlandish tales. As she was for Lord Edmund, she had grown rather fond of him but couldn’t see herself married to him, even as the days turned into weeks of her spending time with her suitors.

Lord Daniel Rockwood was the quieter of the four but no less charming, though there were some occasions when he seemed a bit intense. Nothing that suggested danger to herself, but sometimes she found an intensity in his eyes when she looked at him, but with a quick charming flash of a smile from him made her forget she even saw it.

But it was Darick Merlyn who was rapidly becoming Sansa’s favorite. Even now she found herself seeking him out, stepping outside of the castle and walking along the archways to catch a glimpse of him, training with other members of her queen’s guard. If anyone asked it of her, she would deny it, but she had often repeated this act of observance quite a number of times over the past few days. She knew when training hours were, so it made it that much easier to observe Darick in action.

Suffice to say, he hadn’t exaggerated his skill with a sword. Darick moved with the loping grace of a wolf, his dark eyes just as sharp and assessing. He was quick to anticipate his opponent’s next move and parried against it with an ease t that often seemed to irritate whomever he went up against.

Feeling like a little girl again, Sansa ducked behind a trellis and peered around the corner to sneak a better look. Growing up, she often dreamed that one day a handsome young knight would sweep her off her feet, that he would be big and strong and kind and so very brave. In her mind she knew she was no longer that little girl, but she was surprised that some of that seemed to have remained, judging from her heart quickening at the sight of Darick at work.

She observed him in this manner for a time until foolish prompted her to move away from the trellis and proceed forward. The men had just finished their training and were gathering their gear. When they spotted her, they greeted her warmly with a various murmurings of “your grace.”

Smiling in kind, Sansa praised them, “From what I’ve seen, Winterfell and I are safe in your hands. Your dedication to your kingdom has not gone unnoticed. Keep up the excellent work.”

She barely suppressed a smile at the way several of the knights and knights-in-training puffed out their chests from her praise. However, there was one soon-to-be-knight that was notably absent.

“And where is Ser Darick?”

One of the knights answered, “I believe he just entered the armory, your grace.”

Once the men dispersed, Sansa slipped inside the armory. Not once in her life had she set foot inside this building. She never had the desire to, unlike Arya who would sneak in every chance she got to get a peek at the swords. Although she had never been inside herself, common sense told her what to expect, and she wasn’t let down. Pieces of armor were stored neatly on wooden shelves, and swords of various sizes and styles lied in racks across the walls. Some were laid out on tables and work benches, either awaiting repairs or sharpening.

Sansa rounded a corner to enter the common room when she came to an abrupt halt. The sight before her caused her lips to part in surprise.

Having removed his training gear, Darick deftly laced up his breeches before reaching for his shirt. She hardly paid attention to what he was doing, too distracted was she by his bare back. His olive tone complexion was warm against the dull white color of the walls. His back was perfectly formed, lean and muscled and toned. His forearms flexed slightly as he brought up the shirt to his face, wiping away the sweat. Ah, sweat, she realized with quiet dismay. Beads of sweat trickled down the nape of his neck and downward…

Sansa blushed and knew that her face was the color of her hair. Gods be good, if this was what he looked like from behind, what on earth did he look like from the front?

And to her dismay and barely suppressed not-quite delight, Darick turned around and… oh no. Chiseled could hardly begin to describe his chest. His arms were just as toned as they had been from behind. Dark patches of hair faintly covered his chest and all the way down to his navel…

Sansa’s eyes snapped immediately back to Darick’s face, whose surprise slipped into mild amusement much to her consternation.

“Forgive me, your grace,” he murmured, “I wasn’t expecting your presence.”

“I… Nor did I,” the queen remarked, inwardly rebuking herself for stuttering. “It is I who owe you an apology, Ser Darick. I didn’t mean to find you in a state of… undress.”

Darick smiled, his eyes revealing his humor. He cast the shirt in hand aside in favor of a new one. Mercifully (cruelly), he slipped the shirt over his head. “Now I’m as modest as a maiden.”

Sansa’s lips twitched upwards while withholding a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Ser Darick.” Her gaze then flickered around the armory.

Sensing her curiosity, Darick asked, “Have you ever been in an armory before?”

She gave a light laugh. “No, never. Proper ladies aren’t encouraged to think the word, let alone visit one, at least that was how I was taught by my mother and septa.”

“Then it’ll be my honor to provide you with a different sort of education.”

Sansa knew what he meant but sensed there was another meaning to his words. Ignoring this, she allowed him to take her around the armory, explaining to purpose for the building’s design, how everything was organized, and the history behind it. She was pleasantly surprised she found herself interested in what he shared with her. If it had been anyone else, she would’ve been bored to tears.

“You have a vast amount of knowledge,” she commented once they completed their tour. “Whomever you fostered with for your training must be proud.”

Darick chuckled. “I’m afraid I was a rather poor student in most subjects, but somehow I’ve managed to remember a few things.”

There was no sign of false humility. Most men Sansa knew would’ve boasted about their prowess and intelligence, not modulate it in fear of appearing weak. But Darick was not like these men. “You’re too hard on yourself.”

He studied her for the longest time before he finally smiled, his gaze flickering over her face gently. Her heart fluttered a little at the look on his face. “You’re a remarkably kind woman, your grace.”

“Sansa,” she insisted, surprising herself a little. “Please call me Sansa. At least when it’s just you and I.”

Darick bowed his head slightly in deference, though his smile was hardly deferent. The cheek. “I welcome the honor. Sansa.”

Her name pronounced in that baritone voice of his caused her blood to warm. Oh, dear. Perhaps permitting him to address her by her first name was a mistake, but it wasn’t as if she could retract it now. But then again did she truly regret making the offer? Yes and no. 

Then Darick was looking at her again, this time assessing. He took a step back to further accomplish this. She was filled with confusion. “What are you doing?”

“Visual assessment,” he commented, almost absentmindedly.

Bewilderedly, she asked, “For what purpose?”

“Have you ever held a sword before?”

“Does watching someone else with a sword count?”

His suppressed his amused smile, barely. “No, not really. I think it would do you well if you learned to defend yourself.”

She should’ve been horrified at the very thought. The idea of a woman, a queen, handling a sword went against everything she was taught, Ser Brienne and Arya notwithstanding. Instead of dismay, she was curious. “Isn’t that what members of the queen’s guard are supposed to do?”

Darick nodded. “Of course, but there are times when the queen’s guard may not be fast enough, though such events are rare. You should be prepared just in case, at least in my opinion.”

“I think you’re confusing me for my younger sister, Arya. I’m not exactly skilled with weaponry.”

“I’ll teach you.”

Sansa stared at him, uncertain. “You think that would be wise?”

He considered for a moment before shaking his head lightly. “A sword? Most likely not. A dagger, on the other hand, would work better for you.”

“A dagger?”

“Yes, but I can explain all of that later, if you wish to learn.”

Unconsciously, Sansa bit her lower lip, considering. There were merits to his proposition, of course. “I will consider it.”

Darick nodded, smiling. “I’ll look forward to the day you make your decision.”

Unable to resist, Sansa smiled, and together, they left the armory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And because I love you all, here's a shirtless Darick visual:
> 
> Be patient! Jon should be making an appearance within the next chapter or so. Just laying down the groundwork for some suitor drama ;)


	8. Chapter 8

Even in the peak of summer, Winterfell lingered in the cool temperatures. The absence of snow hardly meant a reprieve from cool temperatures, but it was still warmer by Northern standards. And it was a rather warm day, so Sansa didn’t have to adorn her fur cloak or extra layers of underclothes to keep warm. The sun was out and the wind a gentle breeze. When she looked back on this day years to come, she would think this was only fitting, considering what happened on this very day.

Once her handmaiden finished braiding her thick red hair, Sansa thanked the girl with a pleasant smile and went to break her fast with members of the other noble houses and her suitors. The atmosphere was pleasant and not at all animistic among her chosen four men, which she found rather surprising under the circumstances. 

Not did that prevent them from competing for her affection all throughout the morning. It was in the little things that they did, certain gestures as it were. Who could get the closest seat to her (in this case it was Lord Edmund who sat two seats down from her), who could get her to laugh most often (a very close tie between Lord James and Ser Darick), and of the like. And despite her initial aversion to the suitor debacle, Sansa was finally beginning to enjoy herself.

Lord Daniel, however, didn’t take as much amusement as the other three. She overheard his quiet remark of reproach towards Lord James, “How can you expect to obtain our queen’s affections by acting so childishly?”

He was seated amongst Lord James and Ser Darick across the way from here but were close enough to be observed and within earshot. Lord James rolled his eyes none too subtly. “If you insist on taking everything in life so seriously, my lord, then you should consider becoming a maester.”

Lord Daniel appeared ready to make his rebuttal, then reconsidered, and frowned into his breakfast. 

Sansa caught Darick’s gaze briefly amongst the exchange. He mouthed silently, “Children,” with a subtle shake of his head. She reached for her napkin to conceal her grin.

The servants had only just arrived to begin cleaning up plate settings when a young boy rushed into the chamber. His face was flushed from exertion as well as excitement. He couldn’t have been more than ten years of age. Judging from his garments, he appeared to be a squire or an aspiring squire at the very least. His dark curls were wind swept and sticking to his cheeks. For the briefest of moments, Sansa was struck by how eerily similar he looked to Bran when he was a child.

The boy’s presence brought the activity inside the chamber to a halt once he was noticed.

Remembering her manners, Sansa asked kindly, “What is your name, child?”

The boy stammered sheepishly, “H-Harold, your grace, though most call me Harry.”

Sansa smiled gently. “And what news have you come to deliver, Harry? That is, I assume you have news.”

Harry nodded jerkily, fumbling something in his hands. “I apologize for interrupting your breakfast, your grace. And… everyone.” He nodded in acknowledgement to everyone else present, his cheeks growing even redder at the scrutiny. “But I have some news that just couldn’t wait, the moment I’ve learned of it.”

“It’s all right. We were just finished breaking our fast anyway.” The queen nodded permissively. “Please go on, Harry.”

Smiling a little at the second mention of his name, the boy continued, after gathering his courage. “I was standing watch at the towers – it was my first unattended shift as a squire in training, to see how well I can do on my own, you know. There wasn’t much to do, but I remained at my post, determined to do my duty.” His little chest puffed out with pride, resulting in a few quiet, fond chuckles amongst those in the chambers. Too focused on his own story, he didn’t realize it.

“Anyway, I saw something in the distance. At first, I thought it was a mirage or something, but the longer I looked at it, the larger the object became, until I realized it wasn’t an object but a person, on horseback. So I picked up my spyglass once I found it and zeroed in on the person.”

“Could you identify this person?”

“Not at first, your grace. I had to wait for him to get a bit closer, but I didn’t want to wait any longer than necessary to inform someone about this stranger’s arrival.”

Sansa nodded. “You’ve done well, young Harry. Your diligence will serve you well as a knight.”

Harry’s smile lit up the room. “Thank you, your grace.”

“And how far away was this person when you found him?”

As the boy described the location as best he could, Sansa gestured for Ser Dunlin to join them. He listened keenly until the boy finished and turned towards Sansa after a moment of consideration. “Our impending visitor’s estimated time of arrival can be anywhere from half a day’s ride to a handful of hours, depending on their mount’s gait.” He turned to Harry and inquired, “Could you make out how quickly they were traveling?”

“A gallop, most definitely, my lord,” the boy remarked without hesitation.

Ser Dunklin nodded, his mouth turning flat. “Then they could arrive within the hour easily.”

Sansa nodded, her hands going to the arms of her chair. “And we’ve had no news of an arrival for this morning.” She looked from both Ser Dunlin and the boy. “I wish to see how close our visitor is for myself.”

Rising to her feet before anyone could protest, Sansa waited as the rest of the room rose to acknowledge her. She acknowledged them with a nod before descending the dais. 

Only pausing when Darick rose and offered to accompany them, she, Ser Dunlin, and Darick followed the boy out of the chamber, and down the corridor.

“Oh!” the boy exclaimed as they prepared to enter the stairwell towards the tower. “There was something odd about them that I noticed that I just now remembered.”

Growing more alert, Sansa shared a look with both Ser Dunlin and Darick before asking, “And what was it?”

“I’m pretty certain the man was dressed in all black,” Harry remarked, his face scrunching up a little in concentration. “Though there might have been a hint or some other color in there, it’s possible, but he was dressed in all black. It made me think of the Night’s Watch, but there’s no longer a Night’s Watch, is there?”

Heart stuttering in her chest, Sansa could hardly breathe at the boy’s words. If what he had just said was true, about the traveler being from the Night’s Watch… Was it possible…

Her gaze snapped to Ser Dunlin. “Go find the men at the gate and allow the visitor entrance at once. Take the boy with you so he can provide a description for our visitor.”

Without questioning her orders, Ser Dunlin took the boy and did was he was told. Darick, however, wasn’t as easily convinced.

“Forgive my bluntness, your grace,” Darick begun, “but I think it’s highly unwise for you to do this. Especially when you don’t know their identity.”

Sansa paid his remark no attention, instead turning on her heel and making her way towards the square, right at the heart of the castle where the door would open. Heart pounding, she glanced at Darick, who kept easily with her quick, purposeful strides. “Normally, I’d agree with your sentiment, but you’re wrong on one account. I do know the identity of our visitor.”

He frowned. “And who might they be, may I ask?”

Feeling close to bursting with barely tempered joy, Sansa’s lips formed a restrained smile. “A long-lost Northern son.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!! ;)

The moment Jon reached the gate, he brought his mount to a halt, allowing him to catch his breath. The poor beast hadn’t had much of a moment’s rest ever since he received Bran’s letter. Once in Winterfell, he planned to have stallion passed along to the stable hands to cool him down and provide him with some well-deserved rest.

Gazing up at the large wooden expanse of darkened bark – obviously having been replaced well after the Long Night – the wildling king took a few breaths for himself. The pause in their movement wasn’t only for his mount. Well over a year had passed since he had left the castle to set out for that marked day to sack King’s Landing. At the time, he had honestly believed his role in forging an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen would serve the North well, but in the end, nothing remained expect for ash and blood, though not entirely of Northerners.

It wasn’t long before he stopped did the gate open. As soon as it completely parted for him, he urged his mount to walk forward. He found himself traveling down the path he had ridden down over a year ago, with armies of Unsullied, Dothraki, and other Daenerys loyalists flanking him, with dragons flying overhead and with the queen at his side.

Now he was alone.

Oh, he knew the free folk weren’t far behind him, knew that he wasn’t truly alone, but presently, in that very moment, he was. It was an eerie feeling, retracing his steps, but he kept going forwards. The future of Winterfell depended on him seeing this through. Sansa’s life as well.

The only thought going through his mind throughout his journey was a blinding rage and an equally all consuming fear that the assassin in Bran’s letter had already succeeded. Now that he’d had some time for his thoughts to cool, he knew logically that Bran wouldn’t have contacted him if that were the case, although he suspected he was cutting it close, which hardly soothed his anxiety. So to say that he hadn’t already formulated a plan going forward was… a rather unfortunate accurate assessment, other than the obvious “get Sansa and get out” approach.

No, it needed to be smarter than that. This might not be King’s Landing, but that didn’t mean Winterfell never experienced its fair share of political turmoil.

Curious faces began poking out of their houses at the sound of his approach. Jon tried his best to ignore them, but it was difficult to not see several eyes widening in various degrees of wonder and surprise, to overhear the not quite low questioning murmurs among their neighbors. Soon enough the occasional face rapidly developed into a crowd. 

He nodded at those with whom he made eye contact with but then urged his horse into a trot. The sooner he arrived inside the castle walls, the better.

Recognizing him once he approached, the guards moved aside and let him through. Jon eased his horse back into a walk, a deep sense of déjà vu washing over him. For most of his life, he knew nothing else beyond these walls, at least not much outside the borders of Winterfell whenever Ned Stark brought the boys out for experience, whether a hunt or an execution of an errant brother of the Night’s Watch or something of a similar nature.

Everything was different and nothing had changed all at the same time, a conundrum the wildling king couldn’t begin to sort out. Everyone stared at him the moment he entered the square. More curious faces began poking their heads out of windows and doorways, in much similar fashion along the road towards the castle. Word spread quickly in Winterfell, so it didn’t surprise him.

Dismounting, Jon murmured quiet words of praise to his exhausted stallion. Underneath his fingers, he felt the poor beast shifting his weight to give himself a break. Thankfully, young man who could barely identify as a stable hand rushed forward, the first daring soul to approach him.

“Is it really you, Jon Snow?” the man breathed out, stumbling a little over his words.

Forcing a smile despite his own exhaustion, Jon nodded. “It is.” When the stallion snorted indelicately, he glanced from him to the young man. “Could you possibly do me a favor?”

Eyes wide, the young man nodded.

Jon held out the reins. “Could you see to it that he’s properly cooled down and fed? He’s more than earned his rest after the journey he’s had.”

“O-of course. Anything for the king of the North!”

Jon frowned. “But I’m not…” His voice trailed off as the young man took his horse and walked away before he could finish. Sighing to himself, he shucked off his gloves and flexed his fingers, wincing slightly.

“Jon.”

It wasn’t just the sound of his name that compelled him to turn around; it was the soft, gentle voice carrying it.

She was gorgeous as ever, which was hardly a surprise. All her life, Sansa Stark had been a beauty, and time only made her more beautiful. She held a certain grace about her now, in the way she stood and gazed down at him from above. His breath caught in his throat at the look on her face, completely unveiled and for all the world to see – unadulterated joy.

After what felt like an eternity in her gaze – which was hardly enough, in his mind – the queen of the North descended the steps, her movements carefully controlled as if forcing herself not to rush herself. Once they were on level ground, Sansa stopped for a moment, her gaze running over him, drinking him in. Then she was walking towards him again, every step a little faster than the last, until she was right within arm’s reach.

Jon reached out and closed the gap between them, pulling her into a tight, fierce embrace. He shut his eyes and exhaled quietly as he felt her bury her face against his neck. It wasn’t until he held her in his arms, did he realize, that for the first time in quiet some time, he felt at home.

That was something he had searched for his entire life. He hadn’t known who his mother was, was only half a brother to his siblings, and kept at a quiet distance from the man whom he had believed to be his father. With Sansa in his arms, he felt as if he had truly found it.

“You’ve come home,” he heard her murmur against his neck. Gooseflesh rose along his skin where her warm breath brushed against him. “I’ve missed you.”

He clutched at her in response, too choked up to even speak. Somehow, she understood. One of her hands found its way to his hair and began brushing gentle, soothing strokes at the nape of his neck. A quiet distressed noise broke the silence, and it took him a few moments to realize it came from him.

Neither of them were aware of how long they stood there, wrapped up in the embrace, but at some point, Sansa was forced to take a step back, all too aware of the eyes on them now. Tears of happiness pooled in her blue eyes. Jon wanted nothing more to reach out and catch them before they fell but somehow managed to restrain himself. 

Finally, Jon found his voice, though rough sounding and low, “It’s good to see you again.” Then his lips twitched upwards. “Your grace.”

Smiling, she shook her head. “It’s Sansa for you. Instead of ‘your grace’, I’ll always be your Sansa.”

His heart skipped a beat at her words. He wanted to pull her back into his arms, but with the number of people gradually drawing closer to them, the attempt would be futile. “I’m afraid you should expect some more guests.”

“Oh?”

He nodded. “The rest of the free folk shouldn’t be that far behind me. Within a day’s time at least, if not in the evening. I wouldn’t want to impose but…”

Sansa shook her head. “You could never impose. The wildlings are always welcome here. After all, we wouldn’t have survived the night without their support. Winterfell will always be open to them and to you.”

Catching sight of one of the castle servants, Sansa summoned them to her side. “Would you inform the my council as well as those in the kitchen there shall be a feast tonight in Jon’s honor. If this announcement is too short notice, than the feast may take place the following evening.”

“Yes, your grace,” the servant bowed and rushed off to carry out his task but not before getting a good look at Jon as he left. Memorizing a description to further carry on the gossip no doubt.

Realizing the impulsive decision, Sansa suddenly turned to him, a hint sheepish. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

The thought of a Winterfell meal caused his stomach to rumble quietly in approval. It had been a long time since he had a meal he hadn’t had to help prepare himself. “I could eat,” he admitted, unable to conceal his grin.

Sansa giggled quietly before biting her lip. Then she looked past him and the giggling stopped. He turned around and noticed a young man approaching them, one he certainly had never met before. The young man’s eyes were all for Sansa, something Jon wasn’t particularly happy about.

“I couldn’t help but overhear about your new guests,” he remarked. “Should I inform the guards so they can prepare for their arrival?”

Sansa nodded gratefully. “Yes. That would be helpful. Thankful, Ser Darrick.”

This Ser Darrick smiled, his eyes twinkling with something else Jon didn’t like. “Of course, your grace. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

Jon easily read the flirtation lying underneath those words and felt his eye began to twitch in irritation. Blinking quickly, he shifted beside her and looked at him expectantly. When he didn’t spare him a glance, he inserted himself into the conversation, “And how exactly do you know the queen?” _To be able to speak to her with such familiarity_ went unsaid.

Sansa threw him a quick glance with a muttered, “Jon.”

Ser Darrick looked at him with something that vaguely resembled a smile. “I’m one of the queen’s chosen few for the chance to earn her hand. Our lovely queen’s intent to marry has caused quiet a stir in the North, as well as the other six kingdoms. I’m sure you must’ve heard.”

Eying him narrowly, Jon chose to bypass the jab, instead asking, “And what house are you from, Ser Darrick?”

“House Merlyn. From the Iron Islands.”

“Iron Islands,” Jon murmured, concealing his growing suspicion. He knew all too well where the Ironborn loyalties lied. “Interesting.”

Now it was Ser Darrick’s gaze to narrow. “And what exactly does that supposed to mean?”

Before Jon could remark, Sansa quickly intervened. “You must forgive my brother, Jon. He’s traveled a long way to join us in Winterfell. Traveling can wear one out. I’m sure once he’s fed and rested, he’ll be much better conversationalist.”

He opened his mouth to protest but seeing the familiar raise of Sansa’s eyebrows, he deflated, though not visibly. “The queen is right, I’m afraid.” He forced an apologetic smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose my mount isn’t the only one exhausted from the journey.” 

Then just because he was tired enough to indulge in petulance, he held out his hand. “I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Jon Snow.”

Darrick observed him shrewdly before finally taking his hand, accepting the act for what it was, a challenge. “I know who you are.” His grip tightened on his hand in response to Jon’s tightening grip. “Though I believe there isn’t a person in all of Westeros that doesn’t know who you are.”

Jon smiled. “And you’d do best to remember that.”

“All right,” Sansa cleared her throat pointedly. She placed a hand on Ser Darrick’s shoulder, much to Jon’s annoyance. “You should go inform the guards of the free folk’s arrival. And also make sure we have the accommodations for them and their camp.”

Only when he felt Ser Darrick’s grip slacken did Jon release his hand. He watched as the other man departed and only when he was out of sight did he allow himself to look over at Sansa, who appeared to be doing her very best to withhold her frustration.

“What on earth was that about?” she demanded quietly.

Jon blinked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sansa’s brows raised again. “Really?” She looked ready to say more but thought better of it. Shaking her head, she remarked instead, “You should get something to eat. I’m sure you’re hungry. And then afterwards… would you mean joining him in the godswood? I’d like to speak with you, privately. Not about any of that – though we will be discussing that _soon_ , don’t you worry. I’ve… just missed you.”

Without thinking, Jon reached out and tucked an errant red curl behind Sansa’s ear. His fingers gently caressed the soft skin of her cheek. He thought, for the briefest of seconds, he saw her eyelids flutter shut, but in a blink, they were open again. Maybe he’d only imagined it.

“Of course,” he murmured. He then smiled. “I can’t deny the queen of Winterfell, can I?”

Sansa’s lips twitched upwards. “No, you may not.”

As she turned to leave, Jon recalled the contents of Bran’s letter warning him of the attempt on her life. Their brother had warned him to keep the information to himself, so that the assassin would not learn of their knowledge of the attempt. _And you mustn’t breathe a word about this to anyone, least of all Sansa._

How the bloody hell was Jon supposed to do that?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry for such a long delay in posting. I was going to have something ready on 8/11, but my dad passed away, and we had to make arrangements for him. And there was a lot of work and family issues I had to sort through as well. Thank you all for being so patient and understanding.
> 
> Good news! I begin another round of grad school tomorrow! But I still should be able to post more regularly/at least semi-regularly once the semester gets rolling. I know I'll need some Jonsa fic writing breaks from coursework XD
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy the new chapter!

Jon retired briefly retired to this quarters, which had been prepared for him very quickly at Sansa’s request. He ate a light meal of leek soup and ale paired with a generous portion of oatcakes. He could’ve eaten more of the oatcakes but was a little more than anxious for his meeting with Sansa in the godswood. 

It would be the first time they’d been alone in quite some time. He wasn’t sure what he would say, what he could say. If he had learned anything over this past year, it was how much he had changed in the company of Daenerys, how caught up in his role to ally himself with her. It hadn’t taken him long to identify the cause of the shift in him; now it was only the matter of determination of how he could find his way back to himself.

After swallowing down the rest of his ale, he set out to meet Sansa. He abandoned his cloak and riding gloves, knowing he would not need them. Walking the corridors of the castle, it struck him dumb once again how little and how much things changed since he had been there. He caught sight of more than a few familiar faces, nodding in greeting with a quiet smile but not once was he stopped to be properly welcomed home. It appeared without acknowledgement they all knew where he was headed. News traveled fast.

Sansa was already there waiting for him, sitting underneath the weirwood heart tree, where Ned Stark always cleaned his sword Ice. Hands folded in her lap, she gazed thoughtfully at her surroundings, observing without seeing, as if in deep concentration, her long, copper hair glimmering ever so slightly in the midafternoon sunlight.

Her appearance startled him, similar to his reaction to returning to Winterfell. She remained the same, beautiful lady she had always been destined to become, yet there was something… more. More regal without the intoxication of the knowledge of her power, more kindness and even temperament though steadfast and confident. 

The slight crunching sound of grass underfoot promptly drew Sansa out of her reverie. She looked up, and, when she caught sight of him, smiled, the kind of smile that could reveal one’s inner light. In that moment, there was no worry or concern, just complete and utter happiness, contentment. And it was directed at him. It took his breath away.

“I’m glad you’re home,” Sansa spoke softly, as a means of welcoming. There was enough room beside her that she didn’t have to move, though she did adjust her skirts for him. “I’ve had a pardon for you in my desk that’s been collecting dust. Now it can finally see the light of day.”

Jon’s lips twitched upwards into a hint of a smile. “I’m relieved to hear it. Dust and parchment have never had a good relationship.”

Sansa laughed lightly just as a gentle breeze rustled through the godswood, her hair brushing against his shoulder at the disturbance. “Truth be told, it was the very first thing I did, once coronated, but I have yet to sign it. I didn’t…” Her expression sobered slightly. “I didn’t wish to do so until I saw you again.”

 _“And whether you desired me to or not”_ remained unspoken.

“I don’t want you to start a war over me,” Jon murmured.

Sansa reached for his hand. He was struck by the contrast of their touch, her softness against his calloused, roughness. “You did the right thing. And not just for King’s Landing. She wouldn’t have stopped. You know that. And never forget, the North runs through your veins. You are the North, and the North will always be behind you. Always.” She squeezed his hand. “And you’ll always have me. Whether you want me or not.”

Her smile was a touch rueful, and he couldn’t help but ask unthinkingly, “And how could I ever not want you?” Sansa blushed, and soon enough he felt one creeping along his own cheeks at the implication, so he was quick to add, “How could I not want you in my life?”

Slowly, Sansa retracted her hand from his. He immediately wanted to draw it back but restrained himself. “I know you must’ve been quite angry with me. After you asked Arya and I to keep your secret, and… I failed to do so.” She looked up at him then, gaze steady. “That’s what I wished to discuss with you when asking to meet you here.

“I told Tyrion of your identity for, not only the safety of the North and not just yourself. You had a better claim to the Iron Throne than anyone who has ever fought for it. I’ve seen men and women alike both fight, convive, lie, and steal to get to that chair, and look where they are now. But it’s not just your claim that makes you a good king. It’s your judgement, your kindness, your strength, the faith that guides you. All great traits to find in a ruler. I understand that you never wanted to throne, but Jon, you were the best choice for the throne, had certain circumstances would’ve been different.

“And was I selfish for thinking this way? Perhaps, a little. But I can’t apologize for putting the interest of the North and our people first, for putting you first. But what I do apologize for is for betraying your trust.” Her voice softened, eyes shimmering with a hint of tears but not just quite. “I’ve often had trouble sleeping at night, especially in the beginning, wondering if you hated me for it. Remembering when you stood on that dock, to go to Castle Black to take the black. You never answered my question if you could forgive me.” 

Exhaling tremulously, Sansa did her best to school her features, but there was nothing she could do to conceal the pain in her eyes. She always had such an expressive face, especially those eyes. “I don’t intend to make you feel guilty, in any way, but… that broke my heart.”

Jon tried his best not to physically flinch and nearly succeeded. As well as she, he recalled that moment all too well, often wishing he had said something, anything other than silence. There were so many things he could’ve said, but he realized, most of them would’ve been lies or at best half-truths. It wasn’t the reasons he had taken issues with, only the very fact that she had done it that had hurt him, deeply. But as someone once said, the past was the past. There was nothing that could be done to change that.

But perhaps the future could still be changed.

“I’ve forgiven you a long time ago for it, Sansa,” Jon replied, his voice gruff with barely concealed emotion. “In truth, it’s taken me a longer time to forgive myself.”

Baffled, Sansa asked, “For what?”

“For not trusting you, for not confiding in you when I should’ve,” he answered. “I had this plan, you see. And I thought that in order to see it through, I needed to do it on my own. And somewhere along the way…” he couldn’t bring himself to finish.

She touched him then, reaching out to gently brush her fingers against his jaw. “You’ll find your way back, Jon.” Then she smiled again. “Actually, I don’t believe you’re as lost as you think you are. You’ve only stumbled a little.”

“A little?”

“Okay, a lot,” she amended, though not unkindly. Still, he found himself laughing despite it all. She continued to smile. “I’m glad you’re here. Winterfell can now truly be home again. Or closer to it. Until Arya visits from her voyage and if Bran ever deigns to visit.”

“Go easy on the man. He has six kingdoms to look after.”

“He could have the decency to write more.”

“Now you sound just like your mother.”

Straightening her shoulders, Sansa remarked, “I’ll bear that as a compliment.”

Jon smiled. “It was intended as one.”

Their eyes met and held for such a long time neither seemed aware of how much time had passed. The sun could’ve faded into dusk, and Jon wouldn’t have noticed, too busy getting lost in her gaze. Then the queen cleared her throat a little, something in her expression flickering before she inevitably interrupted the moment. “And there’s another reason I’m glad you’re here. You can help me sort through this suitor business.”

Briefly, Sansa explained how the entire business came up. Jon’s expression abruptly soured. “Do you really need my advice for that?”

“Obviously.” Then she frowned, affronted. “Do you find the idea of me finding a suitor so ridiculous?”

“No,” he remarked, rather reluctantly, to which he could see she was closely growing accustomed to taking offense. “It’s only that… this seems to have happened so quickly. And besides, other queens have ruled for much longer without having to marry.”

Sansa raised a brow. “Name one.”

“Well, there’s…” Jon opened his mouth to prove his point, then recalled that he wasn’t a grand maester and knew little to nothing about Westeros royalty, apart from some of the stories, mostly from his childhood. “Fine. I’m not a maester. But you could prove the exception to the rule.”

“Oh, I wish I could, but I do see the sense in it,” Sansa remarked, sighing quietly. “I do need an heir. So far, I have it that if anything were to happen to me, Arya would assume the throne, but she’d hate it.”

It made him rather uncomfortable discussing the men in Sansa’s life, but, if this could help him in his task to protect her from any assassination attempt, he had to seize the opportunity. So rather reluctantly, he agreed. “You’ll have to introduce me to them.”

Sansa nodded. “I can do so at the feast tonight. There are three more you’ve yet to meet. You’ve already met one.”

Jon frowned. “I don’t particularly care for that one.”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes heavenward. “Just, please, for me, try to keep an open mind. I need an impartial opinion. Ultimately, yes, it is my decision, but I would appreciate your point of view.”

Well, in his point of view, Jon would’ve been happy to be rid of the lot of them, but that wasn’t his decision to make. He was king of the wildlings, not king of the North. Not anymore. 

With great reluctance, he found himself nodding. “I’ll try my best. For you.” Then he smiled. “My queen.”

Sansa returned his smile, her fingers idly brushing the back of his hand. “Good.”


	11. Chapter 11

The dining all hadn’t been this full since the defeat of The Night King and his army of the undead. Drinks were full and running, mouths were fed, and the mood was nothing short of celebratory. The rest of the Free Folk had arrived earlier that morning, and accommodations were readied for them, which made the feast ever more boisterous. 

Adjustments had to be made to accommodate everyone, with tables and chairs being pushed aside to make room for more. But in the end, people continued to pour in and out of the dining hall, which actually suited the evening well. Everyone wanted to get a look at the return of the king of the North, now the king of the wildlings. Hearing secondhand accounts would not do. Everyone wanted to see Jon Snow for themselves, in the flesh.

Observing from his own seat at a crowded table, Darrick observed, perhaps a little forlornly and a hint peeved, the sight of this Jon Snow sitting at the head table, right next to Queen Sansa herself. With a soft unintelligible mumble under his breath, he refocused on his meal, but the attempt was in vain. Against his will, his gaze always found their way back to the pair. 

Jon sat next to Sansa, speaking softly to her, his posture looking far more relaxed than he had when he had first arrived. Most likely due to the ale. He was leaning towards her ever so slightly. Whatever he whispered caused the queen to smile. Darrick’s expression soured. Jon looked as if he were right at home.

Turning towards Lord Edmund Cerwyn, his brother suitor in arms, in desperate need of a visual distraction, Darrick began to gently probe. “What is all this uproar over this Jon Snow?” he asked, playing stupid. He knew enough of the man, of his killing Daenerys Targaryen and how he was sent to the Wall for his crime, but anything else, he wasn’t familiar. He supposed Edmund, being of Northern blood, would know more.

Lord Cerwyn looked up from his plate, his expression somewhat thoughtful. Over the course of a few weeks, Darrick, rather than antagonize his rivals for the queen’s affections, had chosen to befriend them. In fact, he had grown rather fond of Edmund’s company as well as Lord James Mazin. Daniel Rockwood was another story, however.

That man was more of a mystery to him. He rarely saw him smile, unless in the company of the queen, and even then it was rare. 

Before he could linger on this line of thought, Edmund answered him, “There’s quite a bit to tell of him, Jon Snow. He’s practically legendary hero in the North.”

“Most legends are dead,” Darrick remarked dryly.

Edmund smiled ironically. “Aye, I suppose so. Let me rephrase, a _living_ legend.”

Darrick hummed affirmatively before taking another deep swallow of his ale. “Enlighten me then. I’m afraid you’ll find my education in Northern legends rather lacking. Now if you want to know about the Drowned God and the Faith of the Seven of the Iron Islands, I’m your man.”

Chuckling, Edmund set down his fork and knife and settled in to tell the tale of the _living legend_ of Jon Snow. Ned Stark’s bastard, he was raised among the Stark children, much to Catelyn Stark’s chagrin, which she could hardly be blamed for, thinking of raising the child of another woman who had bedded her husband. Darrick received the sixty second biography of Jon Snow, which turned into quite a few more minutes when describing his ascension into becoming king of the North. The throne, he had given essentially, inevitably given up in order to pursue an alliance with the dragon queen herself. He could only imagine what Sansa thought of that.

He could admit it. Jon Snow’s background was impressive. And from the way the other man had gripped his hand, a formidable potential rival. 

Noticing the way his gaze must have cut over to Jon, Edmund asked curiously, “What are you contemplating?”

Shrugging lightly, Darrick’s gaze returned to his dinner companion, albeit reluctantly. “Doesn’t it bother you that Jon Snow, a king who abandoned his crown for the sake of… Well, for a man who basically abandoned his crown to achieve an alliance, which ultimately, no matter how you slice it, turned afoul, deigns to show up after having been gone for over a year, almost two, since his decreed banishment to the wall?”

Edmund frowned. “No, I don’t really think that much of it. It’s very good that Jon has returned. The North is in his blood. And really, he has never truly left.”

Darrick let out a rueful chuckle. “I’ll say. He appears right at home, doesn’t he?”

Edmund then suddenly smiled. “You sound rather put upon, don’t you, my friend?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Let me rephrase again. Not put upon. Jealous.”

Darrick nearly guffawed. “Jealous?” He shook his head, ignoring the pointed look Edmund was directing at him. Instead, he decided to turn the tables around on him. “Aren’t you jealous, then? He’s a potential threat to you, don’t you see that?”

“In a way, perhaps,” Edmund conceded, “but I don’t think you’re all that concerned about the throne.”

Darrick’s brows rose. “Oh no?”

“No. I think you’re more concerned with the queen herself. And her heart for that matter.”

Edmund said nothing more, allowing that to sink in. Darrick also remained silent as well, pondering over his words and what he wasn’t saying. Finally, he demanded quietly, “And just what are you implying, sir?”

“That you’re already half in love with her, obviously.”

Stunned, Darrick blinked. “I… I hardly know the woman. Am I fond of her, yes, but… don’t you think that’s an extreme conclusion to jump to?”

The Northern lord shook his head, his amusement clear in his face. “Love comes in different ways for us. Sometimes, it strikes quickly, while other times it creeps up on you. Seeing the look on your face, I’m thinking you’re possibly some sort of combination of the two.”

Leaning back in his seat, Darrick stared at him, more than a little dumbfounded. “Then surely you’re experiencing the same thing.”

Once again, Edmund shook his head, his amusement gradually fading into sympathy. “Not really. Not to betray the queen’s confidence, but we’ve already discussed it. There are no feelings between us, romantically speaking. The only feelings are respect and fondness.”

“But she hasn’t dismissed you.”

“No, because she as well as I understand there’s more to a marriage than just passion and adoration. Our houses would be allied formidably. She understands this and has continued to consider me thus far.”

For some unknowing reason, the idea made Darrick feel a surge of irrational anger. “While those are all valid points, don’t you believe she should choose a man who loves her for more than her crown?”

Sighing, Edmund gave a quick glance around them and leaned towards him after making certain they would not be overheard. “Ser Darrick, with all due respect, and I mean no insult, but I’ve come to known you as someone who wears their heart on your sleeve. You’re no longer in the Iron Islands, where I’m certain the politics there are quite similarly complex. Would you heed to some advice?”

“Depends on the advice.”

Edmund snorted quietly then looked him in the eye once again. “You should do better to conceal your emotions. It won’t do you any good in court. Take Daniel Rockwood for example. No one ever knows that what man is thinking.”

Darrick went to reply when the ringing sound of something striking a goblet brought the clambering noise to a sudden stillness. 

All eyes turned to the head table as Sansa rose from her seat, looking as lovely as ever. There was a freshness in her cheeks, lightness in her gaze. She looked happy. And for the life of him, Darrick counted himself fortunate to be in her presence when she was.

“I would like you to thank you all for attending this evening,” Sansa intoned. “As many of you may have heard, someone very dear to the North as returned to us. For however long he may choose to remain with us is his choice.” She turned to Jon, her smile dazzling and beautiful. “Winterfell’s gates are always open to you, as well as your people. The Free Folk are very lucky to have you for their king.”

“Hear, hear!” Tormund bellowed from somewhere in the room, causing several to laugh along heartily in approval. 

Laughing quietly herself, Sansa waited for the rest of the room to settle down before speaking again. “As you can see, Jon Snow has returned to us. And in doing so, he has risked his life to be with us this evening. As you all know, the meeting of the great houses, over a year ago, had come to decision. Faced with a terrible dilemma, Jon not only saved the North. He saved us all when he acted in the way he had. Some wished to have him killed for his perceived crime, others wished to spare him. But the vote was very close, resulting in Jon’s banishment to the Wall.

“But as you all know, there is no longer a Wall,” she continued. “There is no need for one, not anymore. And why? Because of this man, who so bravely led us into The Long Night, to fight the army of the undead. Where my sister dealt The Night King that fatal blow. But Jon has done far more than that to protect us. He went to war with Ramsay Bolton. We took the North back.”

Several fists pounded on tables in solidarity along with various celebratory shouts. Sansa’s heart warmed. Stealing a glance at the man beside her, she could tell he was moved by their devotion to him, maybe even beyond words.

“And now is the time for us to return the favor,” Sansa intoned. “We are taking him back. Not away from the free folk where he so happily lives among them, but in another manner of speaking.” Then she withdrew a scroll of parchment from her cloak. It was sealed with the wax signina of House Stark. “In my hands I hold the official pardon of Jon Snow, pardoning him from any wrong doing. As a ruling sovereign, it is within my power to pardon him from any charge brought upon him.”

She turned to him once again, her voice softening enough that some had to lean forward to hear. “Inside, you’ll find the details of the pardon. Everything from your time in King’s Landing during its sacking has been covered. On behalf of myself, the North, and for the good of Westeros, we know how difficult it must have been for you, to do what you’ve done, and we thank you.”

It took Jon a moment to react, stunned beyond words, but he rose to his feet and accepted the scroll from her, their fingers brushing briefly. The parchment was light, but the feeling of his freedom in his hands felt heavy. “Thank you, your grace,” he murmured.

Sansa smiled gently. “You’ve given so much of yourself for us, for the North. It’s time for us to do the same for you.” She turned back towards the room, which was suddenly still. “The North protects its own.”

It wasn’t until those words were spoken did life return to the room. Someone from the back began a chant, which others quickly picked up. Soon enough the room, both Northern and wildling men and women alike, were chanting in solidarity, “ _The North protects its own!_ ”

From his seat, Darrick took everything in, feeling himself being swept up in the moment. There was such a love here, a devotion he hadn’t experienced to this magnitude before. It struck something inside him. But when he turned his gaze towards Sansa and saw the glowing pride in her eyes, he recalled Edmund’s words to him before. 

There was no halves involved. Darrick Merlyn was falling in love with Sansa Stark, completely an irrevocably.

\---

Gradually, the chanting dissipated, and everyone in the dining hall settled back into their celebration. Jon found it difficult not to plop down back into his seat, he felt so shocked. He knew that Sansa would pardon him; she had plainly told him she would. What he hadn’t anticipated was for her to make a proclamation of it, in front of such a large crowd.

While he was grateful for the pardon, he was equal parts concerned and a little more than angry, the latter of which he wasn’t sure whether it was directed towards her. For all he knew, this could be the very act to set off whomever was sent to attack her. How could she be so foolish, risking herself in such a way? And all because of him?

He understood why she did it the way she did. They were among friends, her people. Naturally, word would inevitably spread of her pardon, and she wanted Winterfell to be ready for any residual effects from it. The North never forgets, he reminded himself, nor do they never forget to protect its own. In that respect, he understood why she did it. Maybe he would’ve done the same thing. No, he knew he would’ve done the same thing. That didn’t stop him from being angry with her though, though he knew it would fade.

It was fear for her safety in which his anger was rooted, but he couldn’t tell her any of that. Bran’s letter had explicitly disallowed him from sharing any news of a possible assassin attempt with anyone, especially Sansa. He gritted his teeth and reached for his ale, only to find it empty. It was just as well. For the remainder of his time in Winterfell, he must remain vigilant.

Then Jon’s gaze happened to cut across the room and found the man with whom he had barely held a civil conversation with, Ser Darrick, staring at their table. More specifically, his gaze remained fixed on Sansa. That look told Jon everything he needed to know. Jon’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly, his knuckles whitening slightly as his grip tightened on the arms of his chair. 

Jon was going to have to keep both eyes on this Ser Darrick Merlyn, the Ironborn. And for more reasons than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so not the direction I thought this chapter was going, but the muse knocked. I had no choice but the answer.
> 
> ALSO. I totally neglected to post this, and I should be shunned. But I have to share this.  
> The lovely, amazing talented, dena-1984 made this fanart for the fic! I seriously wished AO3 let us upload covers for fics, but honey, this would be it. I still loveeeeeee it. Dena-1984, THANK YOU SO MUCH AGAIN FOR MAKING THIS!!! 
> 
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> <https://dena-1984.tumblr.com/post/186764142964/jonsa-fanfiction-post-season-8-the-queen-and-her>  
> 


	12. Chapter 12

In the days following the feast, Sansa found herself, for the first time in over a year, beginning to feel Winterfell was home again. While her family might not have been completely whole in one place, with Bran ruling the Six Kingdoms and Arya on her adventures, having Jon back inside the castle walls made her feel… all sorts of things. 

She couldn’t allow herself to contemplate the consequences of those sorts of things, so she tried her best to ignore them. She wasn’t certain how long he planned to stay, but she was happy to have him while he was there. More than happy in fact.

She was pleased to see Jon finding his place among his people. It didn’t matter to her what anyone said – at least anyone who knew the truth. Winterfell was as much a part of him and ran as deep as his Targaryen blood. He was a Northerner through and through. True, it was an adjustment from free folk life to being back inside the castle walls, but the transition, while not entirely seamless, didn’t appear to affect him, at least not in any way that she could tell.

He wasn’t just a Targaryen; he was also a Stark. A fact that often seemed overshadowed by those who knew the truth.

Still, there were moments when she found herself looking at Jon, whether from across the courtyard or beside her while consuming a meal. Perhaps she looked a bit too long and maybe they were less than circumspect, but there were times when she could’ve sworn she saw a flicker of something through the invisible armor he had shaped for himself. She supposed he had to, given his responsibilities to the Free Folk, but there was something else to it. And she intended to find out exactly what it was.

It was like he was the same but not, all at once. While he was friendly and kind with those around him, a part of him appeared to remain guarded, but not for the reasons one would suspect, which only confused her all the more. Just when she believed she had it figured out, the answer would escape her either by interruption her thoughts and another distraction.

Sitting alone in her chamber late one evening, the queen found herself drifting towards that very line of thought. She wasn’t a fool. She understood the ways of the world all too well. From her experiences in King’s Landing and her marriages, once to a Lannister and another to that monstrous Ramsey Bolton, she had grown to learn and understand people’s true natures. Lord Petyr Baelish, her masterful teacher, had taught her well. 

So what was it about Jon she couldn’t figure out?

The gentle fire crackling in the hearth brought a sense of tranquility outside these swirling thoughts. Having abandoning her shoes, she had made herself rather comfortable in seat, another handcrafted gift from the people of Winterfell paired with feather stuffed pillows to make it all the more comfortable. She was contemplating a goblet of wine when she heard the familiar low timbered voice, “This feels familiar.”

Sansa looked up from the flames and watched as Jon paused at her door. Had she left the chamber door open? She must have. Her servant was a young and dutiful young woman who would never have done such a thing unless permitted. She smiled warmly, which she hoped he would take as an invitation to come in and was pleased when he did.

It took her a moment to process his comment. She found herself chuckling gently, recalling the evening at Castle Black all those years ago. “Almost familiar,” she corrected wryly. “I do believe there was some of the Nightswatch ale.”

Always possessing a brooding nature, Jon’s smile was a rare sight. Once walking the corridors, she overheard a few servants proposing a drinking game of whenever he smiled, which was a perfect solution for them to sober up. Yet here he was smiling and not only smiling but chuckling at that! “You’d think after thousands years that…”

“The Nightswatch would’ve learned to make a good ale,” she finished, echoing his words from that night back at him. Their eyes met and locked, both smiling. 

“Would you settle for some wine then?”

“Please,” Sansa intoned gratefully, “but only if you have one with me. A queen mustn’t drink alone. It’s unbecoming.”

Jon nodded solemnly. “We can’t have that.” He found the decanter and two goblets, and she watched him pour, only interjecting occasionally to request he resume his pouring when he stopped. It was near the brim when he approached her with the goblet.

Sansa accepted the goblet from him, purposefully composing her expression when their fingers brushed. It was a gentle but slow graze of his knuckles underneath her fingers, slow enough to feel the contrast of his rough skin against her smoothness. She was incredibly tempted to ask him to bring the rest of the decanter but somehow managed to refrain.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Jon smiled. “Anything for you, my queen.”

Sansa laughed quietly then, even as her heart skipped a beat at those last two words. “It’s so strange hearing you call me that.”

He was still standing as they both took a sip from their goblets. “Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?” she asked, her lips curving into an amused smile.

Jon’s smile mirrored her own. “It’s against propriety to sit until the king or queen allows it so, isn’t it?”

Playfully, she rolled her eyes. “Oh, just sit, you idiot.”

“‘Idiot’? Is that how you speak to other foreign dignitaries?” Jon demanded, though his grin ruined the act.

Sansa once again rolled her eyes. “First of all, you are not foreign. And secondly, I reserve the right to use such terminology as I see fit. And for you, I use it only out of the utmost fondness. You should feel honored.”

He conceded with a nod. “I suppose I should.” Taking the seat not far from her, he then took another drink. “Why do you find it strange? My referring to you as queen?”

Sansa held her goblet between her hands, contemplating for a moment. “It’s not, really, in the general sense. It’s you specifically, addressing me as such. Not so long ago, it was you who were king of the North.”

His expression became shuttered briefly, his gaze turning to the fire. “Aye, I was,” he acknowledged slowly, “but now the North is yours. And I’m very glad it is.” He looked up, pride rising in his eyes. “You’re a magnificent queen. The North is incredibly fortunate to have you.”

Pleasure rushed through her from his praise, warming her cheeks to a healthy, rosy glow, which thankfully was partially concealed by the firelight. “Thank you. It means a lot to me to hear you say that. More than you know.”

Conversation flowed easily between them for quite some time. When their goblets went dry, Jon rose to pour themselves another, but Sansa beckoned him to remain. She rose and brought the decanter back with them. Initially, they drank from their goblets, but gradually, they couldn’t seem to be bothered with pouring on their third round.

Instead, they opted for passing the bottle between them. Sansa was ever conscious of the fact that her lips pressed against the very rim Jon’s own mouth had touched. The rim was still warm. If she ignored the texture of the bottle, it was almost a phantom kiss passing between them, which only resulted in her taking a longer swallow.

They talked about everything and nothing, but perhaps that was due in part because of the wine. The more they drank, the more difficult it was to keep track of the flow from one topic to another. The back-and-forth exchange between them nevertheless flowed seamlessly. Sansa shared her more interesting stories during her early days of her reign, to which Jon reciprocated with tales of his more humorous encounters with the Free Folk, most of which happened to include Tormund.

It was during such a tale as Jon was describing Tormund’s various outlandish attempts to impress one of the wildling women – he had decided to prove his masculine prowess to go after a boar with his hunting spear and nothing else, unless one counted a certain growing appendage as a reinforcement spear, although it was phrased rather more delicately than that. Unfortunately, Sansa visualized that narration all too clearly in her mind and all but snorted wine out of her nose. She coughed and sputtered around her laughter, her body too light from drink to concern herself about the undignified snort.

Leaning forward, Jon reached over and rubbed a supportive hand along her back, grinning all the while. “Are you all right?”

“Quite,” Sansa wheezed as soon as she was able. Her cheeks were flushed, almost the same color as her hair. “I must look affright. I blame you for this.”

Jon looked at her while she was distracted with adjusting her skirts, thinking she never looked lovelier in his eyes. Though that wasn’t quite true. Sansa always looked lovely.

Suddenly, Sansa made to stand up, but her barefoot caught tangled in the edge of her skirt. She would’ve gone tumbling down to the ground and quite possibly could have injured herself if not for the surprisingly agile movement of the wildling king. 

Jon was quick to his feet and reached out for her before hit the floor. His arms snaked around her waist, pulling her towards him. She stumbled into him, perhaps more impactful than either of them intended, because they soon fell backwards into Jon’s seat, with him resuming his place but this time with Sansa half in his lap.

Neither of them realized what had happened until he asked if she was all right, concern coloring his voice. Sansa looked up only to find him impossibly close, her face preciously few inches away from his own. 

Too stunned to speak, both from the fall but mostly from the sudden proximity, she nodded lightly. Her mouth suddenly went dry, her eyes widening a little with surprise. Standing up, she had an inch on him, a few more if she wore heeled shoes. But right now, sitting down, they were exactly the same height. Instinctively, her body was curled into his, one of her legs having found its way strewn partially over his knees.

She was so close to him she could practically count his eyelashes. His eyes were an incredible shade of dark brown, with tiny hints of dark hazel underneath. She hadn’t realize how very brown his eyes were until she saw them up close. So warm and rich was the hue, it was a befitting color for him. A hint of flames from the fire reflecting a little in his eyes.

Everything went suddenly still. The only sound filling the chamber, apart from the crackling flames of the hearth, was their heavy breathing, a direct result from the near fall. She felt his warm breath against her face, the scent of the wine was prominent, but she didn’t care. Then somehow her hand found its place resting against his chest. Just underneath her fingertips, much to her surprise, was the feeling of Jon’s rapid beating of his heart, which almost seemed to increase when she laid her hand on him.

Impulsively, Sansa pressed herself closer. Her breasts were now brushing along the side of his chest, encouraging her own heart to race. Unconsciously, she licked her lips, tasting the lingering droplet of wine. If she hadn’t been so focused on his face, she wouldn’t have noticed the way Jon’s gaze flickered down to her mouth and then quickly back up again. His hands tightened along her waist, almost as if by some primal instinct. Just the very thought made the queen feel warm all over and not just from the wine.

She sighed quietly, and his gaze darkened with… dare she call it, desire?

For one exhilarating moment, Sansa believed he would kiss her. Any thought of her suitors not once entered her mind. It was as if the entire world, the universe, melted away, and it was only the two of them now. No politics, no scheming, no bitter enemies. It was only Jon and Sansa. Sansa and Jon. No one else.

And then Jon leaned forward, his forehead now resting against hers. Sansa’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening their hold on the front of his shirt. This was it, this was happening…

Her lips parted in anticipation, an open invitation.

Jon leaned forward, his mouth only a hairsbreadth away. But the knock on her chamber door resulted in his lips brushing against the corner of her mouth, both startling at the unexpected noise.

“Your grace,” came the voice of her handmaiden, her voice slightly muffled from the barrier of the oak door. “I’ve come to help you prepare for bed.” Normally, this wasn’t something she would announce, since the door was almost always open, which was partially the reason Sansa didn’t tell her to just go away and come back later.

Though the cause for such an urge, suddenly blushing furiously, was currently rising to his feet and putting distance between them, though he was careful to make sure no harm came to her. She went to reach for him, but he was quicker, even though he had just as much to drink as she had, taking a few paces back.

“Jon…” she called out to him softly. The quiet yearning she felt must have been plain as day on her face because she could see it so plainly reflected in his own.

“I… should bid you goodnight, Sansa,” Jon murmured, practically stuttering over his words. “Sleep well.” Before she could rise and reach out to him again, he opened the door to let in her handmaiden, and then he was gone.

Swallowing harshly, Sansa took a moment to collect herself before turning her cool gaze back to the very confused young girl.

“Do you wish for me to return later?” she asked hesitantly.

As much as she desired to say yes, that she wished she hadn’t arrived at all, Sansa smiled kindly, though it barely concealed her inner turmoil. “No, of course not. Please come in.”

As she was helped to undress, the queen’s thoughts never once strayed from Jon. In the morning, she intended to speak with him. She wouldn’t allow him to run away from her this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anddddd so it begins ;)
> 
> Update: A few of you picked up on the strangeness of Jon referring to Sansa as “my Queen.” While I wrote this, I pictured him making the comment partially in jest, but at the same time I thought it sounded a little strange. This is something that I think needs addressing and exploring throughout the fic. Your feedback is incredibly important to me. Without you guys pointing it out, I never would have realized, and I think this is a great theme to explore as Jon finds his way back to himself post S8 for sure.


	13. Chapter 13

In the morning, Sansa rose early, despite the aftereffects of copious drinking from the prior evening. By the time her handmaiden arrived to assist in dressing her for the day, the queen had already bathed herself in lukewarm water and light fragrant soap. Her water was near chilled when she had begun bathing herself, causing gooseflesh to rise along her skin, her nipples hardening into rosy peaks. Ultimately, a part of her decided, the cool water was most likely a good decision, considering what had transpired last night.

Or what _hadn’t_ transpired.

Once dressed, she sat down to break her fast, politely declining her handmaiden’s offer to brush her hair, which would only delay her further. She had plans for today and none of them included what was expected of her as queen.

After silently suffering through her morning meetings with various counsel, Sansa decided to take a few moments for herself and stepped out of the tower to walk along the bridge between the armory and the Great Keep.

She casually observed the men carrying about their daily routines. A few of the younger ones were carousing about, but when one of them happened to look up and spot her, he immediately elbowed his fellow roughhousing men to straighten up their act, which they quickly obliged in doing so. Sansa couldn’t resist smiling.

Then she caught sight of midnight black curls, and her heart constricted instinctively. But when the head belonging to those curls lifted, Sansa’s heart skipped a beat for an entirely different reason.

Having spotted her easily on the bridge, Ser Darrick lowered his hand, which he had previously used to shield his eyes from the morning sun. Even from a distance, his slow spreading grin warmed her insides.

_No, no,_ , she reminded herself silently. There was no need to make matters more complicated for herself.

But a tiny traitorous voice supplied helpfully, _More complicated than things already are?_

She watched as a gave a grand bow, low from the waist, his face, tilted upwards, still sporting his grin. Despite her reservations, she smiled back, shaking her head in feigned exasperation, which only broadened his grin. His posture straightened before he set off towards the armory. 

The memory of seeing him sweaty and shirtless reconjured itself into her mind, but she was quick to slam the door closed on it. No. Such thoughts were dangerous, and it was bad enough she had them for one man, who may or may not share her feelings.

And just like that, Sansa felt a surge of anxiety but did her best to not allow it to consume her. Until she spoke with Jon, she couldn’t afford to fret and mentally come up with scenarios that may or may not be true. Her kingdom depended on her to keep a level head. Unfortunately, when it came to matters of the heart, it was near impossible.

As her mind wandered into these thoughts, a flash of white caught her attention. Focusing her gaze, she spotted Ghost trotting along the cobbled grounds, his tongue dangling partially as he panted lightly. He must have just returned from a hunt.

It was unusual for Jon and Ghost to part company for long. Usually, wherever one went, the other wasn’t usually that far behind.

With this in mind, she observed his path a few seconds more before heading towards a stairwell so that she might trace the direwolf’s steps.

Following Ghost made her think of Lady. Although it happened a long time ago, her heart still ached at the loss of her sweet Lady. After it happened, she had blamed her father – and oh how much she regretted that now. But she had been a child, swept up in the fantasy of loyal knights and brave kings. She had looked up to the wrong people, putting those ideals into hearts that did not deserve them. But she had been a child. She had grown so very much since then, though it was something she had to remind herself almost daily whenever guilt crept back upon her like an unkind friend.

Sansa cast aside those thoughts, instead choosing to focus on the task at hand. She wasn’t certain of what she would say to Jon, but what she did know was she couldn’t bear not knowing. Anything was better than allowing her mind to wander, to guess, to assume.

She found them at the end of a corridor. Having rediscovered his master, Ghost sat on his haunches, eyes shut in bliss as Jon gave him a vigorously affectionate scratch behind his good ear. The sight was too sweet, to private to interrupt, so she lingered back.

Then almost as if sensing her presence, Jon’s gaze lifted from the direwolf, his smile freezing in place. She thought her heart nearly stopped for fear he was unhappy to see her, but when a rush of warmth rose on his cheeks, she bit her lower lip to conceal her relief.

“Hello, Jon,” she greeted softly. 

“Sansa,” he acknowledged just as softly. His smile didn’t fade, but it didn’t widen either. It was time to find out why.

Instead of asking however, she looked down at Ghost with a fond smile. “And exactly where have you been?” Ghost turned at the sound of her voice, rising on all fours. He padded the short distance between them, and she mimicked Jon’s scratching behind his ear. His red eyes closed in contentment.

Seeing as he couldn’t answer for himself, Jon spoke for him, “He’s grown rather fond of hunting with the Free Folk. Tormund’s taken to bring him on hunting trips, ever since… since Castle Black.” For a moment, his expression grew distant, as if he were suddenly thousands of miles away. But before she could ask, he came back, then rose to his feet.

“I’ve missed him,” Sansa remarked, her scratching gradually turning into gentle rubbing along the direwolf’s scalp. He leaned into her touch none too subtly. If he had been a cat, it was quite possible he might have purred. “Winterfell needs a direwolf around. Especially as handsome as him.”

Jon’s smile returned, this time more amused. “Don’t go and spoil him.”

She shook her head in feigned dismay. “He deserves to be spoiled. He’s a very brave, good boy.” As if he understood, Ghost shifted his weight so that he was now leaning more against her side. _He never did that with Daenerys_ , Jon meanwhile observed and kept the thought to himself.

“I wish to speak with you,” Sansa interrupted his thoughts. She straightened her posture, but her hand remained at Ghost’s neck, her fingers taking comfort in his fur. He settled next to her protectively, though not against him.

“About last night.”

And there it was. Jon had hoped to avoid the subject of last night for as long as he could. It had been irresponsible of him, dishonorable even. Having indulged too much in his cups along with Sansa was bad enough; to have her pressed against him, her lips barely a whisper away from his own… The memory her pressing herself so snuggly against him, the feeling that everything finally felt _right_ … Needless to say, he had a difficult time sleeping after that. Nor would it do him any good to recall them now, especially not with Ghost’s gaze directed at him.

Meddlesome wolf.

“I…” he didn’t know where to begin. Eventually, he decided to begin with the obvious. “I’m sorry for anything I might have done that may have made you… uncomfortable.” He frowned deeply at the thought, suddenly seeing the previous evening through her eyes. By the gods, Sansa had already experienced terrible hardship with men. And for him to have possibly contributed to that… he felt sick at the very thought.

His thoughts must have shown on his face because Sansa was immediately crossing the corridor towards him, only stopping a few feet away from him. “Jon, I assure you, you did nothing last night that should give you any cause to apologize, let alone make me feel uncomfortable.”

If anything, his touch, their proximity, the near kiss, it had all made her feel alive for the very first time. To make her feel uncomfortable? The words “quite the opposite in fact” went unspoken, but they both managed to hear them anyway.

Jon certainly had. She could see his face become even redder, much to her amusement. Instinctively, she went to touch his cheek, but he took half a step back. To say that action didn’t sting would’ve been deceitful.

“It wasn’t appropriate,” he murmured stubbornly. “And I assure you it won’t happen again.”

Sansa’s amusement faded, and in its place arrived annoyance. Drawing enough willpower, she gave him the time to continue speaking.

“It shouldn’t have happened. We’re lucky it didn’t… I mean, it could’ve gone much further…” Jon couldn’t remember for the life of him when he had ever been this flustered. Perhaps in the early days with Ygritte and her blatant attempts of getting a rise out of him – in more ways than one – but even then, he never had this much trouble forming words.

And the more he spoke, the deeper and bigger the hole Jon was digging for himself. He had more than himself to think about. His first and most important priority was keeping Sansa safe. And he couldn’t perform his duty with a clear head if he allowed himself to give into his feelings, to give into her. Not that he didn’t want to. He wanted to, badly. And just the idea of those bloody suitors inspired multiple fantasies in which he dueled and defeated each and every one of them, especially that Darrick Merlyn fellow. 

Then Sansa asked him the very question he feared she would. “Do you have feelings for me?” Those words halted any and all movement he might have made, any half-formulated thoughts or words died on his tongue. “Do you have any feelings for me _at all_?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. It would ruin everything if he did. If he lied, it would break her heart, but if he told the truth, it would break him. And if anything were to happen to her… he wouldn’t be able to live himself. The risks were far too numerous and dangerous. “You have your suitors.”

Sansa remained obstinate. “That wasn’t an answer.”

“You’re expected to marry.”

Swallowing harshly, the queen continued to push back. “And you’re okay with that?”

Jon’s lips pressed together, silently resisting.

“And I’m sure you’ve noticed that I haven’t asked why you’ve returned,” she continued, irritated rushes of adrenaline pumping through her veins encouraging her momentum, “though I have wondered. Was it news of my impending betrothment that inspired your visit?”

“Sansa…”

“Or was it something else? Jon, I’m happy that you’re here. And if it were up to me, I’d never let you leave again, but that’s beside the point. What I want to know, now, is why you would return to Winterfell, _now_ , if you didn’t have feelings for me.”

Sansa finally paused to allow herself to catch her breath. She felt a bit lightheaded then, her heart pounding. She said it. She actually, properly, _finally_ said it. And it didn’t make her feel any better to have said it. She felt like a complete jittery, fluttery mess, nothing like a queen ought to be. But she was a woman as well as a lady, but a lady with limited patience. While she did her best to emulate her mother’s grace and kindness, she also possessed her mother’s temper, which Jon was unintentionally provoking.

Jon’s throat went dry. How could he possibly begin to answer any of those questions? “Sansa, I… it’s complicated.”

Sansa laughed, a quiet bitter sound. “Complicated,” she murmured, looking away briefly. “I’ve heard that before.”

He wasn’t sure if he had been meant to hear them, but they were still a punch to the gut. He knew precisely what she was referring to; he couldn’t lay any blame on her for it. Loathed as he was to admit it, she was justified. “Sansa, please…”

Sansa shook her head, tears of frustration brimming in her eyes, which made her all the more frustrated. Blinking rapidly, she took a steadying breath before choosing her next words very carefully. “When you’ve managed to find things ‘uncomplicated’, please come and find me.” She went to turn away but paused briefly, looking over her shoulder. “But I’m not certain how much longer I can keep waiting.”

For someone who won’t fight for me.

She refused to say the words. In her heart, she knew it wasn’t true. But in her mind, she wondered if he would ever be brave enough to come to her?

Leaving those words hanging in the air, Sansa turned and made her exit down the hall. Only when she heard the distinct clatter of something metallic thrown against the stone wall did she finally allowed a tear to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pleaseeee don't hate me!!! haha I promise, this is just the beginning. It's the buildup to a nice long simmer before things get realllllllllyyyyy interesting. Keep the faith, Jonsa fans!
> 
> Also, as a treat for my Aidan Turner/Darrick fans:
> 
> You're welcome ;)


	14. Chapter 14

Winterfell’s library had been one of the very few places in Winterfell not entirely damaged during The Long Night. Still, enhancements had been made during Jon’s absence. The room had been expanded to allow more space for additional shelves, writing desks, and other seating arrangements. There were even windows on the far right walls, which gave the library less of a crammed, walled in feeling. During his reign, he had hardly set foot in the library, which made Jon all the more certain no one would discover him there.

It had been days since his conversation with Sansa or more aptly put, Sansa’s conversation with him. As much as the memory twisted his gut, he needed to focus on the matter at hand – preventing the alleged assassin from making his move. It had crossed his mind once or twice of the possibility of Bran sending his letter to ensure his return to Winterfell, but both times the thought entered his mind, he was quick to dispel it. Bran was many things but a trickster was not one of them. He believed him at his word that Sansa was in danger. He only wished he had made more progress than he had.

He had been back in Winterfell for nearly two weeks now. The only information he had learned were the names of those who had entered Winterfell in the past few months, which was a remarkably long and complicated list. Early on, he realized he was getting nowhere fast.

It was time to bring in another man.

Yes, he knew Bran had insisted that he keep this information to himself, to avoid drawing attention to their knowledge of the plot at hand, but two pairs of ears on the ground were better than one. 

Jon went in search for Tormund.

It didn’t take him long to find Tormund Giantsbane. With his stocky build and fiery red hair, he was easy to locate. An unorthodox choice, especially considering the task Jon intended to give him, but there was no one else he could trust more. 

Once they relocated to a remote location, Jon proceeded to enlist Tormund’s help. He didn’t provide all the details, but fortunately for them both, Tormund guessed what it pertained to, having already had his suspicions when Jon had set off like “a bat out of the deepest parts of fucking hell” back to Winterfell. It hadn’t taken much convincing on Jon’s part to enlist Tormund, who had grown rather fond of Sansa during their stay thus far. He wouldn’t allow any harm to come to her, and if he had to smash a pair of skulls together, he’d do so gladly.

“No, no,” Jon was quick to correct him. “Well, I mean yes, I agree with that, but this work is more… subtle.”

Tormund stared at him. “Subtle? Then why the fuck did you come to _me_?”

That was a very good point, one that he didn’t need reminding of. “Are you turning me down?”

Tormund scowled. “Absolutely fucking not! I just felt obligated to remind you that subtlety may not be my specialty – I’ll work on it.” He uttered the last few words as a partial grumble. While he appeared to be jesting, there was a determined look in his eyes. He extended his hand towards his, and each man clasped the other’s wrist. “I’ll see what I can find out. When I find something, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you,” Jon remarked, feeling very grateful to his wildling friend.

Tormund nodded, giving him a self-assured wink before walking out the door. He decided to give him a few minutes before following suit, just in case any pair of eyes were watching. Knowing that he had Tormund’s assistance made Jon feel infinitely better.

That was until he remembered that Sansa was hardly speaking to him.

\---

“My speak candidly, your grace?” Ser Darrick inquired after a few moments of conversation.

More than a little distracted, Sansa looked up at him, momentarily struck by the unusualness of the act. Oftentimes, she found herself at the same height or taller in the company of men. She wasn’t accustomed to lifting her gaze. True, their height difference wasn’t a significant amount, but it was just enough to spark her curiosity. Smiling at his patient gaze, she remarked, “Of course you may. And it’s Sansa when we’re not in court.”

He smiled a little in askance of forgiveness. “I remember, Sansa, but I thought it crucial to remind you just how lovely and graceful you are.”

 _Oh dear_ , she thought to herself. Out of all her suitors, Ser Darrick was proving to be the most troublesome one. Charm, wit, and good looks, he was the epitome of what every girl should want in a husband, not even taking into consideration his skills as a knight – she had seen him in training on numerous occasions and was impressed with him. And when he said things like that, she could almost forget that her heart belonged to another.

Almost.

“For the past few days, you haven’t seemed yourself,” he observed gently as they walked down the corridor. He had come across her leaving an afternoon meeting, and Sansa wasn’t one to turn down his company. It was apparent she favored him among the others, and if any of her suitors had anything to say about it, they wisely kept their words out of her earshot. “I hope you haven’t taken ill.”

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Sansa assured him, flattered by his concern for her wellbeing. “I… it’s a personal matter. A very confusing, frustrating one. I’m handling it the only way I know how, by taking a step back and letting things run their course.” She had no inkling as to why she was being this honest with him. There was something about her that made her feel comfortable, at ease. Maybe it was the warmth in his dark eyes, the light, gentle brush of his fingers against her hand. 

Sansa blinked and returned her gaze to him, smiling half-heartedly. “I apologize if I gave you any cause for concern.”

Darrick smiled gently. “I know we haven’t known each other long, but I’ve… grown to care for you, Sansa. I’ll always worry about you, whether you desire my concern or not. It’s what you deserve.”

A sudden surge of emotion struck Sansa then. One moment she was smiling, faint as it was, and then the next she was near tears. Her lower lip trembled before she forcefully bit it in an attempt to control herself. Memories of her conversation with Jon flooded her mind, and once they entered, they refused to go away.

She went to turn around, to hide her face in apology, but Darrick was quicker, lifting a hand to brush away a single, traitorous tear. His smile faded into a troubled frown.

Despite herself, Sansa smiled a watery smile. “I apologize. I can’t allow anyone to see me like this. I don’t want anyone to see me as the stupid, foolish little bird. Not… not again.”

Gently, his thumb brushed slow circles against her cheek, the act soothing and nice. “When was the last time you did anything, without thoughts of others or consequences?” he asked. “Something impulsive, just for the hell of it?”

A laugh tore past her lips, a hollow, wet sound. Sniffling a little, she replied, “I don’t believe I’ve ever done a single impulsive thing in my life. Even if I did, those days are over now.”

For a while, Darrick just stood there, his expression contemplative and faraway. Many times Sansa was close to interrupting his thoughts, demanding to know what was running through his mind on grounds of being the queen, but instead she stood there, waiting until his face suddenly became decisive.

With a quick, unconscious lick of his lips, he asked, “Do you trust me?”

She stared at him, startled. “What?”

“Do you trust me?” he repeated, his baritone voice growing softer, richer.

She continued to stare at him. She wasn’t sure how to answer him. “I want to,” she finally spoke.

He offered her his hand then. “Will you come with me?” When all she did was stare at his hand, he added reassuringly, “I promise we won’t go far.”

Hesitating, Sansa looked from his face to his hand and back again. Being impulsive was not in her nature. To act in such a way was undignified for a queen, not to say foolish. Still, she couldn’t deny that the thought had its appeal, along with the man who presented such an offer.

Jon’s face flashed inside her mind. A rush of guilt, then hurt, then irritation rose within her. She accepted Darrick’s hand before she could talk herself out of it and allowed him to lead her wherever he intended.

A little thrill ran through her. She felt like a child who was about to do something incredibly naughty. As Darrick rushed their steps, she couldn’t hold back a giggle. At the sound, he tossed her a wide grin, playfully tugged at her hand before rushing her to wherever he had in mind.

Sansa couldn’t recall the last time she ever indulged in something remotely similar to this.

\---

It was somewhere around afternoon by the time Tormund returned to him. Like Jon, he hadn’t been able to make much progress, but given that he had only been on the job for a handful of hours, that was to be expected. Still, he felt that, since this was a potential threat to Sansa’s life, Tormund felt obligated to keep the wildling king updated with any and all progress. Jon felt incredibly grateful for the thought.

It wasn’t until they were deep in conversation when something Tormund said struck him.

“I can’t see how any threat can get to Sansa,” Tormund remarked, idly twirling the blade he always carried with him between his fingers. It was a wonder he never cut off his own fingers. “It doesn’t make any sense. Unless…”

Jon shifted in his seat, his lunch completely forgotten. “Unless what?” he demanded.

“Unless the threat was invited inside?” Tormund mused aloud. He stopped twirling his knife as he pondered the thought.

Jon felt as if someone had just doused him with ice cold water. Yes, that would make sense. Perfect sense. The North loved Sansa. No harm would ever come to her from their own. Any visitor arriving into Winterfell, however, very well could. It wouldn’t be difficult to come in disguise.

And if that disguise was a suitor…

Shimmering with a mixture of protective anger and ice cold fear, Jon leaned forward, his gaze sharp. “You’re absolutely right. We’ve been looking at this all wrong. I need you to do something for me. Instead of focusing on every visitor that has entered and left Winterfell, we need to narrow our scope to these suitors. Learn all that you can about them. Especially this Ser Darrick Merlyn of the Iron Islands.”

Nodding grimly, Tormund remarked, “Consider it done.”

Once they finished discussing the finer points of their plan, Jon was struck by another startling realization. “Tormund, where is Sansa now?”

\---

Soft horse nickering greeted the pair as Darrick led them into the stables. Meeting a stable hand, he paid him with a coin pouch before turning to Sansa, who couldn’t help but laugh. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you planned this, Ser Darrick,” she accused playfully.

Bowing low at the waist, Darrick replied, “How can I not anticipate a moment alone with my lovely winter queen?” His smile was so wickedly charming Sansa felt her face warm, as well as other parts of her. Straightening, he added, sincerity clear in his eyes, “The decision is entirely yours, Sansa. I’m entirely at your mercy.”

Watching him as he turned around to prepare their mount, Sansa contemplated her dilemma. Had she ever made an impulsive decision in her life?

Then he was suddenly in the saddle and turning to set his dark eyes on her, his smile warm and inviting, his hand once against extended towards her. Before she could talk herself out of it, Sansa took his hand and was awestruck by his strength as he gripped her securely by the forearm and pulled her up into the saddle behind him. 

Instinctively, Sansa wrapped her arms around him as soon as she was settled. She did her best not to think about the torso she was now embracing. Drawing up her best queenly voice, she remarked, “Tell them to open the gates.”

Nodding, Darrick eased the gelding into a walk, slow enough to make it out of the stables unscathed. However, once they were outdoors, he set them into a light trot.

Something compelled her to glance back, some unknown force, but when she did, Sansa spotted both Jon and Tormund walking briskly towards the stables. Spotting her on horseback, Jon’s pace quickened.

Breath caught in her throat, Sansa silently urged Darrick to go faster. The moment they approached the opened gates, they were off at a gallop. The cool winds whipped at her red hair around her like a dust storm in Dorne. Without thinking, she glanced behind her again and just managed to catch a glimpse of Jon’s very furious face, though quickly fading as they rode outside the castle walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long overdue chapter! Grad school and work has been preoccupying most of my time. I finally was able to find time and write this fun little chapter for our OTP!
> 
> Just a little visual to help you with that last little moment ;)
> 
> Also, I started a new Jonsa fic if anyone is interested! It's a Titanic AU called Heart of the Sea, which you can find right [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20763527) :)


	15. Chapter 15

After regaining the ability to uproot his feet from the ground, Jon set off straight for the stables. He couldn’t wait for a stable boy to saddle a horse for him; he needed to do it himself. Seeing the dark look in his face, the stable boy all but launched himself out of his path. 

Throughout his work, he had the image of Sansa clinging to Ser Darrick’s back emblazoned in his brain. He gritted his teeth as he worked, while being mindful not to be too rough on the mare who snorted indignantly when the saddle was placed on her back a bit too roughly.

He was almost finished when he heard Tormund enter the stable, his much larger frame making the stable feel much smaller, despite it housed nearly all of the queen’s guards horses. “I spoke with the guards,” he announced, his voice rough and tense, as if braced for battle. “They said the queen gave the orders to open the gates herself.”

Jon paused briefly to look him in the eye. “You’re certain of this?”

Tormund nodded. “Under no duress, their words not mind.” He watched as Jon resumed his saddling up the mare, a troubled look settling across his bushy red face. “What exactly are you about to do?”

“I’m going to go after them and drag her back here, that’s what I intend to do,” the wildling king retorted. He bent down to retrieve the girth and drew it near underneath the mare’s belly so that he could lace it up. 

Tormund continued to frown. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Jon gave him a bewildered look. “Do you not recall the conversation we just had? How this… this threat could very well be one of her suitors? And Sansa just buggered off with one them?” He gestured aimlessly towards the stable door in frustration. “ _Alone_? How could she be so foolish?”

“She is the queen,” his alleged right hand man reminded him.

Whirling around, Jon glared at him fiercely. “Whose side are you on? Aren’t you supposed to be helping me?”

Tormund appeared unusually calm. “I am, Jon. You know that.” Using his name instead of a number of nicknames was the only thing that had Jon focusing on him now. “Which is why you need think with your head instead of your cock.”

“And if you were in my position, I suppose you wouldn’t do the same?” Jon asked, unbelieving. He refused to believe that Tormund would stand idly by when some strange man rode off with his woman. Wait… his woman?

No. Too bloody long he had denied it, fought it, and buried it. Just seeing Sansa riding off with the man made the idea of losing her all too real. It wasn’t just her life at stake but her heart as well. It was right then he knew. He was hers, and she was his. And dammit, he refused to deny it any longer.

“No, I’d get my hands on the fucker, rip of his balls, and feed them to your Ghost,” Tormund replied matter-of-factly and just as infuriatingly calm. “But that’s not the point.”

Jon turned his back on him and shut his eyes, willing himself to achieve some level of calm. It wasn’t working. “If I don’t go after them and something happens to her…” He sucked in a quiet breath. The very idea was an icy cold dagger to his heart, a vicious, brutal twist of his insides. He finished up his tacking while adding, “I can’t stand by and do nothing.”

Sighing heavily, Tormund remarked, “Go on then. I’ll see to finding myself a mount and joining you out there.”

Jon shook his head. “No, I can handle this on my own.” Then he took considered something briefly then changed his mind. “If I don’t come back within two hours, feel free to come find me but not a moment before then.”

Together they headed out of the stable, with Jon leading his mare and Tormund matching him step for step. And then he had to address the obvious possibility, “And what if this Ser Darrick isn’t up to no good?” What if he and Sansa only wanted a private moment, away from the eyes and ears of court, of the people of Winterfell?

Jon felt sick to his stomach at the very thought and shook his head vigorously to rid himself of it. “I’ll handle it,” he reaffirmed through gritted teeth. Swinging himself onto the mare, he quickly situated himself before turning the mare towards the gates. He gestured for the guard to open them once again.

As soon as they were, Jon thundered down the very path Sansa and the suitor had just traveled. What Jon planned to do when he caught up with them all depended on what he found. Even then he wasn’t sure what he would do. All he did know was that he wanted Sansa safe. He wanted to protect what was his.

Sansa Stark wasn’t his property. She was his heart. It only took someone stealing it away from him to recognize just how much he risked through inaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the short chapter! I really wanted to make sure you guys got something, to make up for the long delay in updating. The rest of this chapter will be posted this weekend. And to paraphrase Sophie Turner, the tea is piping hot ;)


	16. Chapter 16

With her arms wrapped around Ser Darrick, Sansa leaned back and enjoyed the ride. Tilting her head backwards, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the breeze whipping at her long red locks as they galloped on. She knew her handmaiden would have a fit at the state of her hair, all tangled and in a disarray, but in that moment, for the very first time in such a long time, she felt… free. Free, impulsive, unburdened.

Sansa laughed a little at the sudden giddy feeling inside her chest. 

They galloped along the countryside for a time before she tugged a little on Darrick’s coat to gain his attention, wanting to walk around for a little while. It would also give their mount a break. Easing the mare into a walk, he led them off the path towards a small wooded area. He dismounted quickly and turned to help Sansa dismount, his hands warm and strong along her waist as he eased her down. Sansa pressed a hand to the saddle to steady herself then stepped back to allow him to tend to the horse.

Turning around, she sucked in a quiet breath at the view that greeted her. They weren’t far from Winterfell, but they were just enough that she was able to observe a full view of the castle and the village surrounded by its walls. She was suddenly struck then at the memory of returning to Winterfell, right after the defeat of Ramsey and his horrific wardenship of the North. The stone walls of her childhood, though burned and more aged, had remained. The Bolton sigil flags had fallen to be replaced once again by the sigil of House Stark. The winter night had been cold and bitter, but Sansa had welcomed it. Despite the frigid temperatures, she had finally found herself at home again, only after the dogs had taken care of their master.

“The castle is beautiful from here,” Darrick murmured. She nearly jumped, having not heard him approach. She looked over her shoulder and watched as he approached her after releasing the reins for the mare to graze. She watched him for a moment before returning her attention to Winterfell.

“It is,” she replied, voice equally as soft and low. The atmosphere was so peaceful, that any tone above a whisper might disturb it. “Winterfell will always be home. The North will always be home to me, even if all of my family can’t be with me.” The thought of her family, both living and dearly departed from this earth, caused her throat to tighten with emotion. Quickly, she cleared her throat, shaking her head lightly before returning her attention to him. “Speaking of family, have you corresponded with yours?”

From her first meeting with him, Sansa knew all too well how Darrick conflicted with his family, especially where their loyalties had previously been aligned with. House Merlyn, along with many of the Ironborn houses, had bent the knee to the dragon queen. Darrick had been one of the very few that had not, which essentially had left him a pariah among his people, a fact she suspected hurt him deeply. Although he would refuse to acknowledge it, a part of her felt that there was more to this man that met the eye. 

“I’ve written a few letters,” he hedged carefully, “in the beginning. I’ve never received anything back, at least not from my parents or siblings, although the few letters I have received stated otherwise.”

Sansa’s brows furrowed in confusion. “How can they not have sent you letters if they were signed by your family?”

“Growing up, our family had enough wealth to hire a tutor. Similar to your septa, in fact. She taught as how to read, write, basic skills. You know. I was rather fond of her.” He then smiled mirthlessly. “I recognize her hand.”

Her heart went out to him. She placed a hand on his shoulder, hoping to provide some comfort. “I’m so sorry.”

“So am I. I’m surprised she’s still alive.”

Sansa blinked and was startled into a laugh. “ _Darrick_!”

Darrick’s grin turned more mischievous. “I love the woman, but she was already a hundred and fifty when I was five. I’m approaching my thirties. My gods, I believe she’ll outlive us all!”

Sansa covered her mouth to conceal her laughter, but he wasn’t having any of it. As soon as she brought it up, he quickly intercept it, lacing his fingers with hers. “No, don’t do that. Do not deprive me of your smile.”

“Ever the flatterer,” she mused, her heart fluttering despite herself. Often, she found herself combatting a fluttering of butterflies in her stomach whenever he turned the tables on her, all enchanting smiles, roughish good looks, and wicked sense of humor. 

And then there must have been a change in her expression because Darrick’s suddenly changed, too. “What?” she inquired, chagrined to discover herself feeling nervous.

“Nothing, except… there’s something on your face,” he observed. “Something soft.”

“Is there?”

Nodding solemnly, he took half a step closer – not that there was much remaining distance between them. “I suppose I better take a closer look, to ascertain what it is.”

It took a moment for Sansa to realize what he meant. Her heart quickened. There were so many things she wanted to say, fanciful things that pretty women always said in those romantic tales after their brave knights rescued them – witty, charming, lovely things. But for the life of her, all that she could muster was a quiet, “Go on then.”

His chuckle was a low rumble against her chest as she was drawn towards him. Then in barely a moment later, Darrick slowly leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers.

Instinctively, she stiffened, not knowing what to do. Several thoughts rushed through her head. Thoughts of all the previous experiences that rendered her immobile. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, her own mouth. Other men had just taken from her, had never given her anything in return. How was she supposed to react?

Not all men were like that, she realized. Jon had never treated her that way. He cared for her in ways that no one else could, knew her in ways spoke to her down to her very soul. She was in love with a man who was so bound in his honor and ideals it was damned infuriating, but if she were honest with herself, she loved him all the more for it. Damn that Jon Snow. It should’ve been him pressing his mouth to hers, claiming hers but giving all at once, strong and yielding as he shared with her how much she had been missing.

It was true she was thinking of Jon as she gradually found herself relaxing. Only when her hands settled onto those strong shoulders, was she drawn closer even further, that she was reminded that this was not Jon Snow she was kissing. This was Darrick, the wickedly charming knight from the Iron Islands.

Yet she did not mind being kissed by him. In fact, she found herself rather enjoying it.

Throwing caution into the wind, Sansa’s hands found their way into Darrick’s hair, angling her mouth to press more firmly against his. With an army wrapped around her waist and another tangled in her red hair, he made a noise of surprise at her move and met her eagerness with his own.

Sighing against his lips, she found herself giving into temptation. There was spark of something that ignited inside her, something she hadn’t experienced before, nothing quite like this. In his arms, she felt desired, she felt protected. She wasn’t able to think of a time where she felt as if she was someone’s first choice.

That very thought was earth-shattering.

His mouth hungrily meshed against hers, at times almost overwhelming. Whenever she felt as if she would be overwhelmed, he eased the pressure, lowering the heat to a low simmer. It was a dance, a playful, dangerous exchange that made her feel warm all over, from her head right down to her toes.

So consumed were the two in each other’s embrace neither heard the sound of approaching hooves. It wasn’t until she felt strained for breath did she part her mouth from Darrick’s, though barely a hairsbreadth. Slowly, her eyes opened. Darrick’s eyes were still closed, his breathing heavy against her mouth, though hers was hardly steady herself. She could practically count his lashes her face was so close to his.

When he finally opened his eyes, Sansa gazed into them, wondering what else lied behind those dark eyes of his. Without another thought, she kissed him again, only for the sound of a high pitched whinny snap her attention away from Darrick.

Their mare, having sense the presence of an approaching horse, had abruptly forgotten her grazing to greet their visitor. Sansa’s attention had been diverted just in time to see something that made her stomach plummet sharply.

Jon stood before them now, staring at them as if without seeing. His mouth was partially open, as if he had been prepared to say something but the words were caught in his throat. His expression was a storm of emotions, fury, irritation, but none of them could entirely overwhelm the fire of jealousy in his gaze. Her mouth went dry at the sight of him, standing there with his mount a few feet behind him. Her eyes tore away from his face and noted his grip on his sheathed sword, fingers flexing at the hilt.

“Jon!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

Jon’s jaw ticked irritably, his eyes locked on the pair of them. “You know very well why I’m here.” His voice was hard as steel, as sharp as the Valyrian blade that was sheathed at his side.

Before she could demand any further explanation, Darrick’s hand snaked around her wrist and hauled him behind her.

As soon as he saw him handling her, Jon growled and crossed several paces towards them. “Get your bloody hands off her!”

“You and what army?” Darrick demanded just as harshly, seemingly pleased when the wildling king’s eye twitched at the challenge.

“I don’t need an army to deal with you,” Jon promised, glowering. He stopped just short plowing right into him. Most likely, he would’ve continued on as well if Sansa hadn’t managed to squeeze herself between the two growling men.

“Seems a bit of an overreaction of a brother to have at seeing his sister kissed,” Darrick remarked spitefully. Sansa gave him reproachful look and missed the positively lethal look Jon delivered him. She didn’t miss his growl though.

Turning sharply, Sansa placed a hand against Jon’s chest. She felt the rapid beating of his heart beneath her fingers. “Stop this,” she demanded. “The both of you. This is utterly ridiculous.”

There were so many things she wished to tell Jon, that he had no right of following them, that she had been perfectly safe in Darrick’s company, but judging from the flaring of Jon’s nostrils, that might not have been the right thing to say. Instead, she remarked, “We shall all retire to our respective chambers and calm ourselves. Darrick… Ser Darrick will bring me back to the castle.” 

She had to correct herself, knowing that any sound of familiarity wouldn’t defuse the situation. After receiving an affirmative nod from Darrick, who stubbornly refused to break away from Jon’s gaze, she withheld a sigh before looking up at Jon, to whom she affixed an indignant glare. “And you. We will have a talk after you’ve calmed yourself.”

Jon diverted his glare from Darrick and returned hers equally. “Oh, I promise, I will be present for that conversation,” he remarked lowly. The steely heat in his voice was enough to make her shiver, and it wasn’t from fear. 

“I won’t be far behind you,” he added, his words intended for Darrick. He didn’t dare remove his gaze from them until Darrick had himself and Sansa returned to their mount. Only then did he stalk off to remount his horse.

The entire confrontation left Sansa baffled and more than a little breathless.


	17. Chapter 17

“Your grace,” one of Sansa’s advisors rose abruptly as soon as he spotted her. He began to approach her eagerly, “We’re so grateful for your arrival. We…”

“Leave us,” Sansa commanded. Inwardly, she flinched at the thinly veiled harshness of her tone, but with an angrily roused Jon Snow hot on her heels left little attention to her own actions.

Apparently, her own frustrations were clear on her face, since every single member of her counsel rose, though she noticed their hesitation. She gave them a look. “Must I ask twice?”

Before they could respond, Jon remarked as he entered the chamber, “No, you do not.” Her back was to him as he entered, but if his expression was anything like his tone, she knew very well there was a storm brewing between them. Between the pair of them, her counsel knew all too well to scatter. 

Unfortunately, one of the younger advisors lingered at the door, remarking rather hesitantly, “When would be a good time to…”

Before she could turn around and confront him, Jon all but held him by the collar and escorted him out personally, taking care to give him an extra shove for incentive. He then turned to the queen’s lord commander and said, “If anyone so much as approaches these doors, see to it they are sent off elsewhere.”

Almost as soon as the doors were firmly closed, Sansa demanded, “Do you think I’m incapable of giving orders?”

Shaking his head irritability, Jon remarked, “No, but it seems you’ve all but lost your mind.”

Eyes widening, she fumed. “How dare you…”

“How dare I?” he mimicked bitterly. “How dare you, to forget yourself? You’re the queen of the North and there you go, off galivanting…”

“Galivanting?!” she asked shrilly, but Jon carried on as if she hadn’t uttered a word.

“… off galivanting with a man you hardly know.” She felt the searing gaze of his from across the room. “What on earth were you thinking?”

Sansa’s face burned with indignation along with a hint of shame. She refused to admit he was right, that she had forgotten herself just for a moment. What she had done was reckless and a very much unqueenlike, but what did that say of men and women? Kings could come and go as they please and often conducted themselves far more promiscuously than anything she had done. If her biggest indiscretion was riding off with one of her suitors than so be it. 

“What I do and who I am with is of no concern to you,” she remarked, her eyes narrowing. “Did I make you my hand?”

Jon returned her glare with equal heat. “It most certainly is my business. And no, you did not make me your hand, but perhaps you should invest in one. Someone needs to explain things to you.”

“Oh, ‘explain things to me’?” she mocked, folding her arms across her chest. “Please, elaborate for me, Jon, just what do I need explained to me? Since you’re acting as my hand, are you going to go about acting as my mouth as well?”

Sputtering incoherently, he gestured wildly towards the door. “For one thing, knowing not to leave the castle walls with a man you don’t know would be a perfectly good place to start.”

“Ser Darrick has been here for nearly two months! Perhaps even three.”

Jon scoffed. “That hardly makes a difference.”

Sansa fought the urge to walk over, seize him by the shoulders, and shake him. Given the way he was looking at her right now, she believed the feeling to be mutual. “You had no right to follow us,” she remarked coolly. “Nor do you have the right to lecture me, especially about duty to our people.”

“Someone has to.”

“Least of all you,” she pointed out, unaware that the distance between them narrowed until she found herself staring him right in the eye. “You, who abandoned your crown, your people, for her.” 

The moment the words left her lips she regretted it. Seeing the sudden flash of pain in Jon’s eyes brought her no joy. She yearned to reach for him, to comfort, but her hands remained stubbornly at her sides. She was still very much angry with him, for following her like an overprotective sibling, challenging any man who dared to pay her any sort of attention or affection. They’ve had this conversation before. She couldn’t wait for him forever. The future of Winterfell relied on an heir to the throne. To achieve that, she needed to marry and hopefully gain an alliance.

To an outsider, it might seem she had acted rashly, but she was only doing what was expected of her, though there was something about Ser Darrick that was more than simply duty.

However, she couldn’t spare him a second thought, not when Jon was in her space, filling every spare ounce of her attention, overwhelming her senses.

She was close enough now to see Jon’s eye twitch. Before she could even contemplate taking it all back, he spoke lowly, in that rough brassy timbered tone of his, “Everything I have ever done since leaving for Dragonstone, has been for our people. For the people of Westeros. For Winterfell. For you.” He stressed this last point by laying his hand soundly against one of the wooden tables, the sound so loud in an otherwise soundless chamber apart from their raised voices. His lowered voice affected her so much more than his raised, angered voice ever could.

“I needed to commit myself so thoroughly to gain her allegiance, and… I lost myself, more so than I ever thought I would. To the role I needed to play but never to her.” In truth, he never bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen. That day at the summit between Cersei, Daenerys, Brienne, Tyrion, and the rest, he did say that he could not serve two queens. Never had her admitted to bending to Daenerys; he only allowed her and others to believe he had. He hadn’t thought he would have fooled Sansa so easily, yet apparently he had.

“I never loved her,” Jon continued, his gaze once far away slowly returning to her. “Not in the way you asked.”

Sansa took a measured breath, uncertain of where to proceed. Now that she thought about it, he had never confirmed his love for the dragon queen. During her moment alone with Daenerys, where she asked who manipulated whom, in that moment she had realized what Jon’s intentions had been, yet it had still been difficult for her to forgive him for doing what he had done, although she had understood it. As much as she had resented it and resented it still, she understood his motives and him.

“Then why the secrecy?” Sansa asked, a hint of desperation in her voice. And oh gods how much she hated herself for it. “Why couldn’t you tell me that?”

But she knew the answer as soon as she asked. He knew it, too, but was unwilling to voice the words. He had already forgiven her for her part in revealing his true lineage, or so he claimed. She chose to believe he had, but in that moment, she knew all too well why he hadn’t divulged his plan to anyone. And she understood.

How lonely he must have felt, forced to be reduced in character in such a way she had hardly recognized him. Jon had never been one for politics, but when it came to protecting his people, he had thrown himself into the thick of it, in order to gain security against the Night King, to have them able to live for another day.

Sansa was just about to reach out to him when Jon suddenly jerked forward and began to pace. “Do you have any idea how badly you scared me? To see you riding off with him?” He swallowed convulsively and crossed his balled fists behind his back, to conceal the slight tremor in his hands. “Until I confronted the guards, I had no idea if you had left of your own volition. And I…”

He halted abruptly and closed his eyes. It took several minutes for me to speak again. “There was so much destruction that day. I saw men, women, and children, slaughtered, after the city surrendered. I… couldn’t bear to see more of it. When I entered the throne room, I didn’t know what I would do until I spoke with her. It wasn’t until I realized how she would never stop, could never stop…” His expression turned faraway again. Sansa ached to reach out and draw him back to her but knew he needed to speak this out. Then he turned his head ever so slightly, so that she was in his periphery. “She threatened to destroy all those who opposed her, just as she had done that day. All I could think of in that moment was her flying to Winterfell on her dragon, making her demands, confronting you and… harming you if you did not yield. So I… I had to do it. I had to.”

This time Sansa approached him and carefully laid her hand on her shoulder. She felt the tension in his shoulders and increased the pressure when he did not reject her touch. “You did the right thing, Jon,” she spoke gently. “All of us who know you, the North, we are behind you.”

Jon shook his head, letting out a quiet breath. “You don’t understand.” He turned so that he was completely facing her. He took her hands in his, his eyes locked on hers. “I couldn’t let it happen because… if anything were to happen to you, I would lose my mind.” His hands squeezed hers, as if to reassure himself that she was there with him, safely under his wing. “So now I hope you understand what was going through my mind when I saw you riding off with him.”

His confessions rendered Sansa near breathless. That was as close to a declaration as she had ever heard from him. Her heart raced inside her chest. All thoughts of suitors and Darrick’s passionate kisses vanished as she gazed into his earnest eyes. If she allowed herself to gaze any longer into Jon’s eyes, she knew she could become hopelessly lost in them.

But wasn’t she hopelessly lost in him already?

Feeling a little weak at the knees, Sansa reluctantly slipped her hands from his grasp so that she could sit down. After a brief silence, she finally looked up again, with a look of such tenderness and love Jon felt compelled to go to her. And he did but only after he murmured, “There’s more.”

Sansa’s expression turned vaguely puzzled. “More?”

Sighing, the wildling king nodded. “There’s something you should know, about why I’m really here. I was instructed not to tell you, but given my history of keeping you in the dark, I no longer believe it’s in your best interest to not know.”

Concerned, Sansa sat straighter, her posture tensing. “Tell me,” she spoke softly.

And tell her he did. Jon told her all about Bran’s letter, about his visions of an assassination plot against her, how Bran had written to warn Arya so that she could come home. He told her how he inadvertently acquired Tormund’s help in tracking down leads, monitoring the grounds, during the entirety of his return. Jon’s constant hovering whenever she was about, especially around her suitors, fit the narrative into an entirely different perspective for her now. He told her everything and more until there was nothing more to be said.

At the end of it, Sansa was left stunned, stunned by the revelation that someone wanted her dead, although it wouldn’t be the first time someone plotted against a monarch, nor would it be the first time someone wanted her dead. Cersei’s face came to mind, but she slept well knowing that one of her demons was permanently put to rest. However, according to Jon, she had knew ones to worry about.

Jon knelt down in front of her, cradling her hands carefully in his. “Please. Say something,” he implored, gazing up at her with such concern and inner turmoil she finally found the courage to speak.

And then she did the one thing neither of them expected. She laughed, quietly almost to herself. “I know it’s foolish for me to say, after everything you just informed me, but… I had thought you had returned home when you heard news of the suitors. To… ask for my hand.” She laughed again mirthlessly and ducked her head a little. “I may be a queen but sometimes I’m still that silly, foolish little girl.”

Pained, Jon closed his eyes and briefly lowered his face so that his forehead rested against her knees. “Don’t ever think that. You’re many things but silly and foolish you are not.” 

Then he looked up at her, his expression conflicted for a moment before a sense of resolved replaced it. “I don’t want to think I am saying this out of jealousy, or out of fear of losing you. When I say this, I truly want you to hear the words, though I would have preferred it under different circumstances. But if I’ve learned anything over these past several years is that any moment can be our last, and I know I’d regret it for the rest of my life if I never told you how much I love you.”

Sansa’s lips parted just as he swallowed hard. “You aren’t wrong. I love you. I can’t recall the exact moment when I realized it, but I know it in my bones that it’s true. I would do anything for you. I… you are the world to me, Sansa Stark. And I promise you, no harm will ever come to you as long as there’s breath in my body.”

Overwhelmed, the queen gently touched his face, stroking along his bearded jaw tenderly. She smiled through the threatening tears. “You have no idea how much I longed to hear you say those words.”

Jon smiled, his love in his eyes and a sudden lightness in his heart. “I should’ve told you sooner, but we both know that I am a fool.”

“You are,” she agreed, and together they both laughed. 

When she leaned in to kiss him, he murmured against her lips, “Remember what I told you?”

“About your theory, with the suitors?” she asked quietly, their mouths only a hairbreadth apart. 

“Aye,” he hummed affirmatively. “We must keep up appearances, so that we don’t alert whomever has come to do you harm. For now, we have the upper hand.”

Sansa agreed yet she ached to lean forward just a bit more. “Does that mean I can’t kiss you now, in private?”

Groaning quietly, Jon squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m afraid if I kiss you now, I won’t be able to stop.”

Shivering with delight, Sansa licked her lips, which unintentionally brushed against Jon’s, causing both of them to inhale sharply. Knowing she would have to be the one to withdraw, it took every ounce of strength she possessed to do so, but she didn’t part from temptation all that easily. Instead, she pressed a kiss to his brow, lingering as she waited for the rapid beating of her heart to slow.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “For trusting me with the truth.”

Whether it was for his true reasons for his return or the admission of his feelings, she did not say. Perhaps it was both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I FINALLY got this chapter done! My first semester of this new grad program is officially done and now I have some time off. I hope this chapter was worth the wait for you guys!!
> 
> I love the Jonsa fam, and I want nothing more than to make you guys happy... and somewhat torture you with slowburn Jonsa angst haha


	18. Chapter 18

The man settled into his accommodations quite well, tucked away in one of the few towers reserved for Winterfell visitors. His quarters were quite comfortable, and there wasn’t nothing left to be desired. Well, perhaps for one thing.

It had taken a lot of time and ingenuity, but he managed to arrive at Winterfell as one of the queen’s suitors. He had the letters to prove himself, forged and decorated to near perfection. If any inquiries were to be cast of his background, he had several people behind him to vouch for him, from parents and other relatives to even childhood friends who could share anecdotes of his days as a precocious boy, even though he had never spent any time with them in his youth. It was absolutely vital to cover one’s tracks, to anticipate every angle, every scenario, to conceal his cover.

This plan was incredibly risky, but it provided ease of access to the queen. It afford him opportunities of being alone with her, to observe her closely, to learn all he could before he struck. The reward far outweighed the risks for him personally, though there were others who had warned him against it. Why place himself in harm’s way when anyone else could have done it easily with a far less risky plan? 

From what he gathered over the days, months, and years since the assassination of Daenerys Targaryen, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and all the names that came with it, he knew this was the best guarantee of delivering that revengeful blow. 

Sitting on his bed, the man lifted the edge of his mattress and pulled out the clothed covered dagger. He unwrapped it with care, especially for the blade’s sharp edges. Valerian steel, it was rumored. So sharp it was easy to slice a finger clean by a simple brush along the edge. The blood red rub sparkled in the firelit room.

He rose from the bed and walked towards the fire to examine the dagger more properly. It was beautifully crafted, he observed, careful to maneuver it by the hilt. His palm sweated from the heat of the flames, causing his grip to loosen. In an attempt to prevent the dagger to fall, he caught it by the blade, which soon sliced into his palm.

Cursing colorfully, he grabbed the cloth of the dagger and wrapped it around his palm, which was throbbing from the wound. With the cloth wrapped securely around his hand as a tourniquet, blood droplets continued to fall, a few hitting the stone paved floor. 

A quiet hissing alerted him to the flames. Noting the dark red stains on the fire logs, he watched as the flames flickered and danced around his blood, as if welcoming home a long lost relative. Suddenly, the dagger in his hand began to warm. He brought it to the fire for a closer look.

The sudden image he saw then made his breath catch.

He had never met Queen Daenerys, nor had he the privilege of looking upon her face even in passing. All he had were stories and drawings, heard tales of her beauty while some attempted to depict it in art. It wasn’t until his travels to Isle of Naath that his knowledge of the fallen Targaryen queen became complete.

It was there that he met Greyworm, who had served in her army during the sacking of King’s Landing and had stood by her side for many years. The meeting was by happenstance, and their acquaintance even more so. Greyworm wasn’t a man of much words during the man’s time of Naath, but eventually, he managed to learn more about his time with the queen when Greyworm felt as if he could trust him. That was when he learned about the final days of the queen, and everything that had led up to her fall.

The hostile relationship between Sansa Stark and the queen wasn’t public knowledge, but there had been whisperings ever since the meeting of the great houses at the Dragonpit, after the nomination of Bran Stark as king of the six kingdoms and Winterfell becoming an independent nation. It had taken a while, but Greyworm eventually more or less confirmed the man’s suspicions. Having trust in him, Daenerys had confided in her frustrations to Greyworm, although these verbalized concerns were rare. 

No one would truly know whatever happened in that throne room that fateful day, but Greyworm insisted that it had something to do with the Starks, especially Sansa. After a brief moment of silence, the man had suggested that justice knew not of the length of time that passed, only that when it was achieved. Perhaps they could still get their justice for the queen, even if they didn’t have the support of the new king. Seeing the look on Greyworm’s face, the man had known he had his undivided attention.

And that was when the seeds of the plan had taken hold.

None of that mattered in the moment now. Right in the flickering flames he caught a glimpse of silvery blonde wisps of hair. The smoke billowed upwards out of the hearth as the image became clearer. Then the face slowly came into view, gradually becoming more focused beginning with the mouth, then nose… Her eyes were the last to appear.

Heart racing, the man knew he was staring at the visage of Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.

She was breathtaking.

One moment she appeared and in the next, she was gone, her visage turning into smoke right above the mark of his blood.

Fire and blood.

His wound all but forgotten, the man knew that he needed to act and soon. His timeframe was nearly up. He had everything he needed, the operations of the castle and its servants, the daily routines of those in the castle and within the village. All he needed was the right moment, the opportunity. Killing the Stark queen would bring Jon Snow to his knees. And once he was there, it would make it all the more easier to kill the queen slayer.

Justice would be hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I wanted to post chapters 18 and 19 at the same time, but I felt that since I haven't uploaded in a while, I'll post this chapter now. 
> 
> UPDATE: Here's a snippet of chapter 19 I posted on my tumblr. You can check it out right [HERE](https://annawoodhull.tumblr.com/post/190092230925/the-queen-and-her-wildling-chapter-19-snippet) if you don't care about spoilers haha


	19. Chapter 19

Taking a steadying breath, Sansa shifted on her mount, doing her best to relax. Sensing her tension, her mare shifted underneath her, snorting and pawing lightly at the ground. 

“I know how you feel, girl,” she murmured, reaching down to rub the mare’s neck soothingly. Her gaze not once broke away from the snow covered hills. The first snow had fallen the previous night, and as was common in Winterfell, the first snow arrived in droves. 

Come on, hurry, she thought to herself, shivering despite the heavy layers of fur and wool of her riding cloak and dress provided her.

Not far behind her came the sound of approaching hooves. She smiled knowingly to herself as the sounds became louder by their approach.

“You couldn’t wait inside the castle, could you?” Jon demanded, his voice uncharacteristically light and unbroody. 

The thought prompted a small giggle to slip past her lips. She turned her head in time to see him draw up his mount beside hers. “Clearly, we’re of the same mind,” she noted, her smile growing at the sight of his exasperated smile.

A smile on Jon Snow’s face? Where was the grand maester to document such a sight?

“Admit it,” Sansa said, “you’re just as excited as I am.”

“You should be inside warming yourself by the fire,” he counted back mildly, his smile still intact.

“I have red hair. Isn’t that enough?”

Jon’s head leaned back as he released a bark of laughter, an even rarer sight to behold. Forget the grand maester. Sansa would capture this moment inside her memory. There weren’t as many flurries as there had been the previous night, but there were a stubborn few who were unwilling to rest. They fell into his hair and beard, standing out starkly against his black hair. The crinkles at his eyes, the sparkle of amusement inside them, were absolutely enchanting. Jon should smile and laugh more often.

“The letter delivered by the raven said…”

“I know, Sansa,” Jon interrupted gently. “But standing outside in the snow won’t make Arya come any faster.” At her pointed look, he acquiesced, “All right, all right. I know. Standing outside in the snow, I’m well aware. I’m a hypocrite.”

Sansa grinned. “Good. I’m glad we’re both aware.”

Together the Northern queen and king returned their gazes to the mountains, awaiting the arrival of the youngest Stark daughter. The raven had arrived earlier in the week that Arya should be arriving in Winterfell at any time, so they “ought to prepare themselves.”

Sansa smiled fondly at the playfully veiled threat. Arya Stark was returning to Winterfell. It was as if a piece of her heart had finally returned to her.

\---

“How were your travels?” Sansa asked as the trio made their way through the village, approaching the castle. “I’ve already received any letters recently, so I would like to hear it from you.” Her tone was playful though there was a hint of motherly reproach in her tone. 

Sighing dramatically, Arya remarked, though her smile ruined the affect of an annoyed younger sibling, “West of Westeros has been more time consuming than I ever could have thought. I even stopped at Naath for a bit to recuperate.”

“And did Lord Gendry help you recuperate on your journey?” Sansa asked slyly. Her grin widened at the deep blush that rose along her sister’s cheeks.

“… possibly,” Arya remarked vaguely but from the way she hesitated both Sansa and Jon had their suspicions confirmed. “He traveled with us for a while before returning to Storm’s End.”

Jon concealed a smile as he witnessed the sisters’ mild squabble. It brought back a sense of normalcy that had been absent ever since their younger selves left Winterfell the first time.

Once inside the castle walls, the three dismounted and passed their mounts off to the stable hands to untack them. While Sansa walks away briefly to discuss something with one of the guards, Arya turns her gaze towards Jon, her look carefully constructed. Even after everything she had been through, he could always tell what she was thinking or at the very least suspect it. While her expression remained carefully blank, worry and mild agitation shone in her eyes.

He recalled the contents of Bran’s letter as if he had just read them yesterday. It wasn’t hard for him to do, having thought of nothing else but its contents ever since he carried out its instructions to burn it for fear of the letter falling into the wrong hands.

For that very reason, Jon gave her an imperceptible shake of his head, murmuring lowly, “Not here.” Arya returned the nod and focused her gaze on their surroundings, observing while appearing nonchalant, even passive.

Jon knew better, as he was doing the same thing.

Once Sansa returned to them, he suggested that they relocate to some place more private. She agreed and suggested they go down into the family crypts. No one, especially a Northerner, would not dare step foot in the crypts without permission from the queen. Even when House Stark served as warden of the North, the same unspoken rule applied to the people of Winterfell, save for the members of the Stark family. 

“You’ve told Sansa?” Arya asked with surprise as they entered the corridor. Each of them had already lit a torch to take down into the crypts. “So you did something nonidiotic for once. Good for you.”

Jon gave her a disgruntled look, which cracked slightly at the musical sound of Sansa’s quiet laughter. Arya grinned triumphantly, and together they went down.

They entered the family crypt and set their torches in the sconces. One by one they paid their respects to the fallen members of the Stark family. Jon gazed up at the statue of Ned Stark, the man he believed to be his father for most of his life. His likeness was uncanny and beautifully crafted. His stoic expression while holding his Valyrian steel blade Ice penetrated Jon’s thoughts. While he may not have been sired by Ned Stark, he would forever consider him his father.

The Stark sisters quietly talked amongst themselves, though he was too absorbed in his thoughts to overhear anything they discussed. His gaze flickered over to the likeness of Catelyn Stark briefly, bowed his head in respect. Even after all these years, he still felt a pang of guilt under her mildly stern gaze. 

Their relationship had always been complicated, but with the revelations of his true parentage, he still felt remorse for the woman who had been the closest thing to a mother he had. Growing up, while he resented her exclusion of him, some part of him understood it. He understood it still. One day, he hoped to see her again, to tell her that he understood why she had been cold to him, to just talk to her, to tell her everything.

Or would she already know? He liked to think that she knew, now. And that she was letting Ned have it in the afterlife for keeping such a secret from her. The thought drew out a faint smile.

Jon found himself standing in front of the statue of Lyanna Stark. The last time he had stood in front of her was the night of the battle of the Night King and his army, the moment he had revealed his lineage to the dragon queen. He had unwittingly confided in her in the hopes of gaining her trust, but he had soon come to realize not soon after that Daenerys had viewed him as a threat to her claim to the Iron Throne.

A warm press of a hand drew Jon out of his thoughts. He turned and found Sansa beside him, her understanding, tender smile touching his heart. He felt an overwhelming urge to cover her hand with his, to press his lips against her knuckles, but they had eyes upon them.

Arya was ready to get down to business and inquired what they intended to do now. Jon and Sansa shared a look before Sansa said, “We’ll carry on with everything as planned. I’ll continue meeting with my suitors, without coming to any decisions. We can’t risk eliminating a choice and potentially risking the opportunity of finding the person who intends to do me harm.”

Arya frowned at Sansa and turned her frown towards Jon. “That’s fairly risky in itself.”

Jon nodded. “I couldn’t agree more, but we also can’t let them know we’re onto them.”

“Even though we have no idea who it is,” Arya addressed, a fact that none of them were comfortable with.

“Either way,” Sansa supplied, “as long as they remain vigilant, everything should be fine. Winterfell is our home. And I’ll be damned if I’ll let someone try to take that from us. I’m willing to play bait if it means capturing this person. Whatever it takes.”

Jon’s gut twisted at the image those words conjured. Although it was something they were more or less doing, hearing it verbalized did not sit well with him at all. Sitting back and waiting while Sansa put herself in harm’s way was almost more than he could bear. But what other choice did they have? Without any inkling of who the potential assassin might be, there was no action they could take until that person made their presence known, or simply made a mistake.

There must have been a trace of his worry in his face when Sansa remarked gently, “I know you don’t like it.”

Fingers flexing at his sides, he remarked, “You can’t be alone with any of them.”

Sansa appeared to fight back a sigh, sensing how difficult was this for him to accept. “You know that’s not possible, not without raising suspicion. I must continue to do what I as I have been. It’s too late to consider the others who had arrived in Winterfell seeking my hand, but at leas this way, we’ll have a start. If this would-be assailant is even a suitor that is.”

“She’s right, Jon,” Arya said, albeit reluctantly. She didn’t like the risks Sansa was drawing to herself anymore than Jon did, but this was the only course of action they could pursue, until person revealed himself. “But between the three of us, we should be able to find the bastard.”

To her credit, Sansa didn’t even flinch at the curse that left her sister’s mouth. She acknowledged the fact her younger sister would never be a lady long ago, although it had taken a while for her to accept it. Despite all that she had been through or perhaps because of it, Arya excelled in the art of observation and remaining unseen. These talents, among others the youngest Stark woman possessed, was something greatly needed now.

Though he didn’t like it, Jon nodded reluctantly before looking both Arya and Sansa directly in the eye. “If we’re going to do this, we need to make sure we don’t take unnecessary risks, at least none that those in the know aren’t privy to.” He looked at Arya specifically and then at Sansa, hoping that delivering a stern look would drive the message home. It appeared to work with Sansa, and thought Arya gave a light mocking roll of her eyes, he knew she agreed.

As they continued to discuss some tactical strategies, Jon didn’t miss the uncircumspect side eye Arya gave him. He knew very well what that look meant: had he thought this through?

For months, Jon had thought of nothing else. Prior to his admission to Sansa, he and Tormund had turned up nothing. Once Sansa was in his confidence, he had turned over every possible strategy in dealing with the situation, none of which had more potential or risk than allowing things to carry on usual. As much as he despised it, he knew they had little choice.

\---

Over the course of the next few days, Sansa did her best to carry on with life as usual. Although she managed to maintain her queenly demeanor, on the inside she was a bundle of nerves. Alone, she jumped at the sound of any slightest thing, her heart racing at the mere sight of a shadow. It was a horrible way to live. She had believed she had left all of those horrors long ago in her past, yet here she was, keeping a watchful ever over her shoulder.

Only this time, she wasn’t alone.

Although she believed what she told Jon was the truth, she did her best to avoid being alone with her suitors without drawing any suspicion. She spent time with Lords Edmund and James together and separately; her feelings towards them had hardly changed, the sense of comfortable familiarity and friendly comradery. She liked them from the beginning and liked them still, yet she found herself wondering, if their intentions were in fact genuine.

Her heart wanted to trust them, but her mind refused to allow herself to be swayed.

Though much more reserved than either Edmund and James, the latter in particular, Lord Daniel Rockwood had a quiet calmness about him that put her at ease. He held the mystique about him, however, that made it difficult for her to read him. She resolved to keep her wits about her when around him, but whenever he smiled, she forgot her doubts.

“You’re almost too charming for your own good, Lord Rockwood,” Sansa remarked in response to one of Lord Rockwood’s clever jokes. 

Lord Rockwood smiled ruefully, his gloved hand resting assuredly on along her forearm, their arms interlocked as they walked down the corridor towards her chambers to prepare for the feast hosted in honor of Arya’s return. She’d only allowed it considering the robust business of the servants in preparation for the meal and knowing very well that her handmaiden would be awaiting her in her chambers. There were so many people around her she had little to fear.

“It’s been months, your grace,” he demurred, “I implore you to call me Daniel.”

Sansa hesitated, briefly. Of the four men remaining, she comfortably, perhaps unwisely, felt compelled to refer to them by their familial given names, not their titles. Lord Rockwood, somehow, had never managed to achieve that milestone with her. Sansa hadn’t considered it to be that obvious, but hearing the underlying tone in his voice, it was apparent it was.

“Yes, it has been months we were first introduced,” she hedged carefully, “though I don’t believe I feel comfortable… being so familiar with you. I know so little about you.” He rarely volunteered any information about himself, always turning the conversation back to her. At first, she believed he was genuinely interested in learning more about her, but apart from knowing the strained pressures of holding the future of his house in his hands, she could amount all of the information she knew about him on one hand, perhaps even less than that.

“Tell me what you wish to know,” he requested, his tone surprisingly earnest, “and I will answer to the best of my ability.”

“All right. What is your relationship with your parents? How did you grow up? Did you have a family pet? And what is your favorite piece of music? You know all of the answers for me. Now tell me something of yours,” she replied, silently challenging him to answer.

Lord Rockwood shrugged slightly. “My childhood is rather boring. I don’t wish to bore you.”

Sansa said, “Believe me, Lord Rockwood. Boring is incredibly underappreciated. Sometimes, a woman appreciates the dull and tedious.”

He smiled, somewhat indulgently, and continued to walk with her until they made it to her chambers. She allowed him to press his lips against her knuckles. She wanted to ask why he didn’t answer any of her questions when she noted his gloves.

“You told me you were warm-blooded,” she remarked curiously. “I recall you boasting about how even the coldest winter couldn’t penetrate you.” She squeezed his leather clad hands playfully. “Why the gloves?”

A flicker of some unnamed emotion came across his face, but in an instant it was gone. His smile was disarmingly charming, as he usually was, and perhaps even a hint bashful. “Perhaps, I’m not as invincible as everyone, including myself, may think.” He kissed her hand once more. “Good evening, your grace. I hope to see you at dinner.”

Before Sansa could even blink, Lord Rockwood was gone.

\---

Even with the odd encounter with Lord Rockwood, Sansa was determined to lower the number of opportunities of being alone with her suitors, especially Ser Darrick. With Ser Darrick, it wasn’t that she feared him to be the attempted assassin, co-conspirator, or what have you, but she was more concerned with how she acted around him. Darrick appealed to an impulsive nature she had never known she possessed. He was tall, dark, and attractive and was as devilishly charming as they came. It would be wise for her to keep her distance.

Unfortunately, fate had an odd sense of humor even at the worst of times.

The dining chambers were full of people celebrating Arya’s return. Much in the same manner as for Jon’s return, drinks were replenished heavily and no belly left unfed. Sansa sat at the high table and gaze around the room, a warm feeling settling over her. This was something she could get used to, the sounds of merriment and contentment.

Dinner had gone well, with only one or two men getting particularly rowdy, which her Lord Commander handled appropriately, grabbing each young man by the collar and escorting them out until they sorted themselves out. 

Sansa spotted Jon and Tormund across the room. They didn’t appear to be speaking of anything of consequence, especially since Tormund was currently guffawing in his loud brassy voice of his. Jon’s poor shoulders took a beating as Tormund pounded his back in some sort of conciliarity gesture, though from appearances the wildling king appeared to be at the butt of the joke. 

From her observations of the pair since his return, the relationship between Tormund and Jon hadn’t changed much when he became the wildling king, and that was heartening to witness.

Then she caught Jon’s eye. His exasperatedly fond expression softened into something more tender. Sansa’s heart skipped a beat as she noted the shift. Even though there was a whole room between them, she could feel the warmth and love in his gaze, as if he were standing right next to her. The love she felt for him was all consuming and simmered below the surface. She wanted to close the distance between them, to feel her hand inside his. And so she went.

“Your grace,” a familiar low, baritone voice drew her attention behind her. She was face to face with Darrick, who she had hardly seen in recent days. Of course, he was as handsome as ever. His black curls were tamed and slightly coiffed, and the rest of him was clean shaved and impeccably dressed, though there was still a subtle wildness about him that any woman would find alluring.

Very conscious of Jon’s gaze on them, Sansa smiled even as a stab of guilt went through her at the sight of him. The last time she had been anywhere near this close to him was during their ride beyond the castle. She remembered the warmth of him as she rode with him, the way his muscles flexed and moved against her as she’d clung close. The strong, earthy smell of him greeted her, coaxing yet another memory, the gentle press of his mouth against hers, gradually escalating in passion.

Mercifully, the room was dimly lit in torched sconces otherwise her suddenly burning cheeks would have been prominent to his gaze.

“Darrick,” she greeted, then froze when she finally recalled propriety. “Ser Darrick,” she corrected herself, blushing even further, “I’m happy you were able to attend.”

“Of course,” he replied. “I would never allow myself to miss being in the presence of such a beautiful woman.”

 _Goodness_ , she thought. She smiled, ducking her head slightly in sudden shyness. It couldn’t be helped, not after she had a few goblets of wine herself. No woman was immune to Ser Darrick Merlyn’s charms. How could she ward herself against them?

Then she felt his finger hook underneath her chin, coaxing her to return his gaze. “There she is,” he murmured, his brown eyes filled with warmth. The action was bold. She suspected that more than half of the room were watching her while the other half pretended not to. Still, she found herself unable to look away from him. What on earth was wrong with her?

Then Darrick removed his hand, and for a moment, she sorely missed it. “I know this may not be the appropriate time, but… could we speak for a moment?”

She bit her lip briefly, contemplating, before giving him a gentle nod, accepting his arm as the headed towards a less crowded alcove across the room. Sansa felt another prickling sensation along the back of her neck and knew at once both Jon and Arya were watching them.

“I’ll get to the chase,” Darrick remarked once they were sufficiently out of earshot. “I’ve been worried if… if I had overstepped any boundaries that day.” He needn’t bother to specify what day; she remembered it all too well, the kiss still lingering on her mind despite all efforts of her trying to erase it.

Touched by his concern, Sansa assured him he hadn’t done anything wrong and without thinking placed her hand on his chest where she felt the strong, steady heartbeat underneath her fingertips. “My being… _standoffish_ had nothing to do with you, I promise. It’s only… for a moment, I had forgotten myself. I’m a queen. I shouldn’t have acted so… impetuously.”

“Yes, you are a queen, but that doesn’t make you any less of a woman,” he remarked, his hand sliding over hers, warm and larger over hers. Oh no.

Swallowing, Sansa nodded reluctantly and admitted, “You’re right. There’s another reason I did avoid you, without intending to. I… liked it.”

 _Remember the role you must play_ , she reminded herself, feeling even guiltier at the budding happiness spreading across his face. But she wasn’t entirely sure just how much of her words were a farce. She hadn’t lied. She had enjoyed the kiss. But that was before her confrontation with Jon, when he had told her loved her. Her heart soared at the memory. But now she only realized one very important thing.

Why hadn’t she said it back?

Desperately, Sansa wanted to tell him that things were complicated with Jon and everything else, but she can’t, not without risking a plan that was already much too threadbare to begin with. As much as she wished to confide in him, she knew she couldn’t an shouldn’t. Still, she couldn’t ignore the fact that she had never found herself wanting to trust someone so quickly before, at least not in a long time. Could that be because of her foolish, young heart, or was it simply instinct?

“Well,” Darrick remarked after a brief silence, “the men better bring their best suit and armor. I intend to fight for you with everything that I’ve got.” He squeezed her hand and brought it up to her lips.

It wasn’t until he did so did she notice the bandage. Eyes widening with alarm, Sansa immediately turned his hand palm up. “How did this happen?” she asked as she tried to quell her alarm.

He released a rueful chuckle and looked more embarrassed than anything else. “One of the knight’s squires and I had a bit of a wager. Doesn’t really matter what the wager was. I lost, which meant I assumed his duties for the week, including polishing armor and swords. One of them get away from me.”

Sansa winced sympathetically. “You poor thing. Did it hurt?”

“Any knight would say an injury was all in the line of duty, but considering I lost a wager to a squire, I have no qualms about admitting that yes, it hurt quite a lot,” he remarked, his dryness prompting her to laugh.

Without thinking anything of it, Sansa pressed her lips to his bandaged hand and straightened shortly after. “There. Now it should heal more properly.”

Darrick’s expression softened. “I’ll never deny a kiss from a winter rose.”

Sansa returned his smile, even though she knew that her heart already belonged to Jon. “Please see to it that you get tended to. As the queen, I demand it.”

He grinned, took a step back, and bowed low at the waist. “If my queen so demands.”

Shaking her head with a light laugh, she watched him go, blending back into the crowd. When she turned to look for her wildling king again, she found Tormund among the men, but Jon was not to be found.

\---

Sansa was unable to locate Jon for the rest of the evening and didn’t see him until the following morning. She had just finished getting dressed with the assistance of her handmaiden and was preparing to break her fast when there was a knock at the door.

Expecting her handmaiden with her breakfast, the queen rose from her bed and opened the door, only to be greeted with the sight of Jon Snow.

Unconsciously, she smoothed out the any possible wrinkles in her dress and invited him inside. “I’m about to break my fast, if you wish to join me.”

“Oh, no. I don’t mean to disturb you,” he replied, “though I appreciate the invitation. Perhaps some other time.” 

Shutting the door behind him, Sansa turned towards him, wondering if he had found any information that could help them capture this dragon queen loyalist, only to be surprised when he takes one of her hands between his own.

She felt something solid resting in the palm of her hand. For a moment, she just stared at him in confusion until he released her hand so that she could see what was inside.

Laying in her palm was a wooden wolf, no bigger than the size of her thumb. There were enough etchings and carvings to note that it just wasn’t any sort of wolf; it was a direwolf. It took a few minutes for her to realize where it had come from.

“It’s a bit rough,” Jon admitted and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I haven’t done much wood carving since leaving for the Wall, the first time. Between steward duties and other daily tasks, there was a lot of time on our hands, so I figured trying my hand at wood carving couldn’t hurt.” Sansa caught a glimpse of his red cheeks and judged by his rambling he was apparently nervous over her reaction to his work. When he realized he was caught, he decided that shutting up with his best option. He smiled abashedly. “It’s nothing much, but I wanted to give you something, something special. Though it might not be…”

Before he rattled on even further, Sansa brought a hand to rest against the back of his neck and whispered reverently, “I love it.”

Jon’s dubious expression lightened. “You do?”

“Yes,” Sansa said fervently, tears brimming in her eyes. “I love it so much. I love that you made this for me. And I love you, too.” Seeing him go perfectly still, she pressed on, determined not to lose her nerve. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you that day. But I do. I love you, Jon Snow. You are the man that I love.”

Unable to resist any longer, Jon seized her by the waist, drew her towards him into a lover’s embrace, his lips finally finding hers.


	20. Chapter 20

Jon Snow was an ardent kisser, to which Sansa was pleasantly surprised to discover. 

Underneath the dark and brooding exterior was a fire that threatened to consume them both. Suddenly, the Targaryen’s house words of “fire and blood” made sense. The way he held her she felt as if she were the most precious treasure in the world. 

She did not hesitate for a moment to return his kiss. Her hands found themselves slipped up his shoulders and around the back of his neck, her mouth greedily accepting his devouring intent. Harsh breaths and whispered oaths were the only sounds in the room, and with every flick of his tongue against her mouth, seeking entrance, wracked her body with continuous shivers.

Apart from her kiss with Darrick, Sansa’s experiences with love and romance were… non-existent. She never experienced any sort of romantic affection from any of the men she had been betrothed or married to. Yes, Tyrion Lannister might have been the best of them, but in her eyes, he had been an extension of Cersei’s capture, to ensure her unhappiness and torment.

She wasn’t thinking about any of that now. Nothing else in the world mattered. As far as she was concerned, nothing else existed. Not her previous marriages, not the assassination plot, and not even Ser Darrick Merlyn himself. All that remained as the taste of Jon’s mouth against her own, and it was the world should be.

Arching her back, Sansa melted against him more fully, all too happy when he drew her closer. Then his hands began to move, slowly, greedily roaming up and down the small of her back, as if unable to decide where to explore first. Tremors continued running throughout her body, despite the sudden heat radiating between them.

Without thinking, she grazed his lower lip with her teeth. The sound of his muffled groan had her insides tightening with anticipation. Her mind was racing, spinning. She never experienced such an overwhelming intensity of feelings before, at least none of which were inspired by fear. Where did she put her hands? Was she kissing him all right? Though all these questions and more were just below the surface, she stubbornly cast them aside and continued kissing him, almost as if her life depended on it.

Only when their lungs threatened to burst was the kiss broken. That didn’t prevent Jon from trailing warm kisses along her cheek, to nuzzle at her neck with a quit, huskily murmured, “fuck.”

Heart still racing and her breathing ragged, Sansa couldn’t help but chide him lightly, “Language.” It was such a ridiculous thing that it prompted them both to laugh, breathless and more than a little intoxicated from the headiness of the moment.

Wrapping her arms more securely around his neck, she pressed a kiss to the shell of his ear, murmuring, not realizing she spoke aloud, “I’d let you kiss me forever, if the gods permitted it.”

Humming contently, he kissed her neck. “Do we need the gods’ permission then?”

“We only have so much air in our lungs,” she reminded him, enjoying the beginnings of a good banter.

Continuing with his affectionate nuzzling of her neck, he remarked, “If you run out of breath, you can have mine.”

Sharing of breath, the very life force that gave life to all living creatures, was one of the most intimate acts a person could bestow to another. His words warmed her even more than she thought possible. 

She could’ve sworn she felt his smile against her skin, and just for that, she nibbled at his lobe with a gentle tug. She smiled in satisfaction at his groan.

Then she eased back so that she could lure his face from the crook of her neck and gazed into those dark, beautiful eyes of his. They radiated so much warm, tenderness, and love it threatened to overwhelm her all over again. She never knew love like this, to be consumed so thoroughly yet clearly know that her destiny would be forever intertwined with his. She recalled her father’s words from so long ago, of his promise, _“I’ll make you a match with someone who’s worthy of you. Someone who’s brave and gentle and strong.”_

She must have been smiling, for Jon gently crooked a finger underneath her chin, prompting her to return his gaze. Smiling, he asked, pressing his forehead against hers, “What are you thinking?”

Sansa parted her lips, ready to tell him when there was a knock on the door. Her handmaiden with breakfast, she suspected.

Jon closed his eyes and muttered something unintelligible. Despite her annoyance at the interruption, she giggled. A spark of amusement returned in his expression before he reluctantly withdrew from her.

“We’ll revisit this conversation later,” he warned, lifting her hand to his lips. He feared if he kissed her cheek, the temptation to return to her mouth would overwhelm his senses. She understood the struggle all too well, knowing that she was under the same spell.

Sansa’s stomach flipped at the press of his lips, and before she could demand for another kiss as queen because it was her right, Jon was already heading towards the door. The moment he opened it, the queen’s handmaiden’s pleasant expression turned into one of great surprise, her eyes widening. Clearly, she hadn’t expected a man to be in her queen’s chambers at this hour, let alone the former Northern king.

Sansa suppressed her laughter at the almost comical look on the girl’s face as she watched Jon depart, looked back at Sansa, and back to Jon’s retreating form. The queen knew she had nothing to worry about. The young girl was always discreet. Her moment with Jon was safe.

“Have you broken your fast yet?” she inquired of the girl. When she received a shake of her head, Sansa invited her to eat with her. It was out of the norm, but she was in too pleasant a mood to abide by royal customs. 

After assisting Sansa into her gown, the two young women ate together companionably. The subject of Jon was never brought up, though Sansa could see the burning questions in her handmaiden’s eyes. She trusted the girl to be discreet, but she felt no compulsion to share what had transpired between them.

It was a private moment, one that Sansa Stark would treasure forever. Ned Stark had been right. She found him. She found her knight.


	21. Chapter 21

From her time in Braavos, Arya Stark possessed keen observational skills. Her experience with the Faceless Men honed her knowledge and ability to not only see what others could not but to look past the facades that everyone put up when they were around others. Once she had learned these skills, it was actually rather easy. The only thing she couldn’t do was read someone’s mind, but body language and behavior was the next best thing.

Unlike Jon, she felt compelled to take on a more active role with the suitors. She had her own agenda. While Jon and Tormund continued their covert operations, she decided to take a more hands on approach. She didn’t merely observe them from afar; she would get to know them and that required interacting with them. So that is what she did. As Sansa would so charmingly say, she played nice.

She started off with Lord Edmund. Decently kind, there wasn’t much else she could say about him. A bit dull but otherwise he seemed nice. Her initial instinct was there was no way he had any involvement in this plot, but then again, people have surprised her before. 

Lord James was another matter entirely. There was hardly a dull moment with him. When together, it appeared he brought Lord Edmund out of his shell. He even got along fairly well with Ser Darrick as well. The man was handsome, gregarious, and overall charming. On a handful of occasions, he nearly managed to have water come out of Arya’s nose when his wit caught her at mid-sip. Comparing him to Edmund, she liked him a lot better, which prompted her to watch him more closely.

She took her time getting to know them over the next few days. Out of the four of them, she could safely say she liked Ser Darrick the best. They had the most common ground for discussion, his experience with swords and travel. She even playfully challenged him to a mock duel, to see what he was made of. By the end of it, she was pretty impressed with his skill and technique, though she schooled her features not to let it show, especially his reaction to when she beat him. He acted as if her sex made no difference to him and respected her victory.

The only suitor she received potentially negative vibes from was Lord Daniel. While handsome and charming in his own right, Arya found him to be incredibly standoffish, if not a bit to full of himself. Naturally, she followed every one of the suitors to observe them. As of yet, she found nothing out of the norm, although Lord Daniel spent perturbingly long hours in his chambers.

Along the way of approaching the castle, Arya swiped a piping hot fresh loaf of bred and dropped more coins into the merchant’s hands that was probably more than what it was worth. She looked at the vaguely disfigured bread and smiled as she thought of Hot Pie and his attempt at making dire wolf bread before proceeding to wolf it down. The loaf was gone by the time she found Jon.

As they made their way towards the bridge overlooking the square, she filled Jon in on her observations thus far. She wasn’t worried about potential eavesdroppers. For all anyone knew, she was doing research to make sure her sister made the right choice in suitor.

“Edmund, gods bless him, is a bit of a dud,” Arya remarked. “If Sansa wishes to have a husband who can coax her to sleep and tuck her in by just his mere presence, he’s the one.”

Jon cleared his throat to conceal his amusement. “What do you make of him?”

Understanding his meaning, the youngest Stark woman shrugged. “It’s still probably too soon to tell, but I’d wager it’s not him. Unless his method his boring someone to death.”

“Arya…”

“All right,” she conceded, pausing as they passed a two knights along the stairwell. She proceeded to share her insight into James.

“Charming, funny, you know the type. Rarely says an unkind word about anyone unless it’s in jest.”

“Your thoughts?”

“Hard to say, but I think it wouldn’t hurt to keeping an eye on him.”

“I agree.”

They made their way to the top of the tower when Arya remarked, “Out of all four of them, Ser Darrick is the best of them.”

“Really.” 

The singular word was spoken rather flatly, something she noted distinctly but refused to let on it was noticed. Humming affirmatively, she continued, “There’s something about him that makes you feel comfortable immediately. He seems rather comfortable here, considering he’s an outsider. You’d think more people would take an instant disliking to him because of it, but when I asked around, the majority opinion of him is actually favorable. Can’t say I blame them really. He’s my favorite by far.”

“Apparently, that’s the common trend,” Jon remarked, clearly disgruntled.

Turning her gaze upwards, Arya grinned cheekily. “Oh, so I take it Sansa has a favorite?” When Jon leveled with a barely suppressed glare, she tried her best not to laugh. “It’s amazing she hasn’t made it official yet. Cut the rest loose and go with him.”

“First of all, there’s the obvious reason why she hasn’t,” he addressed, a slight edge crawling into his tone as they walked. “Secondly, he’s an outsider. Contrary to what you’ve heard, I don’t think the people of Winterfell would take too kindly to their queen marrying an outsider.”

Arya nodded sagely. “Suppose you’re right. She has to marry someone Northern.”

Jon nodded. “Correct.”

“Someone who has Northern blood. With dark curly hair, beard. Someone who’s tall… oh, wait, scratch that. Slightly tall. And who always has his faithful white dire wolf at his side.”

Jon looked at her sharply then, and this time Arya didn’t bother to conceal her amusement. “It’s rather obvious, you fool. Granted maybe not to many others, at least the ones that have their sight.” Seeing the worry in his dark eyes, she was quick to reassure him, “Don’t worry. I don’t believe anyone knows what’s going on between you and Sansa. And even if they did, you wouldn’t have anything to worry about.”

Brows furrowed, he asked, “What do you mean?”

She plucked a loose thread from her cloak and discarded it. “The North loves Sansa. She is our queen, the queen we chose. There isn’t a man, woman, or child in Winterfell especially that wouldn’t come to her defense.” She looked at him honestly. “But the people want their Northern king as well. And if that means you and Sansa…”

Jon murmured something unintelligible under his breath, prompting her to grin. “I’m only speaking the truth.”

“Yeah, well…” he began but trailed off, for once at a loss of words. They were on the bridge now, snow crunching underneath their feet. He crossed over towards the bridge wall and rested his arms against it, his expression pensive. 

Arya walked over and stood beside him. She didn’t say anything, waiting for him to finish his thought.

“I can’t say that I haven’t been considering it.”

Despite her raining with the Faceless Man, Arya’s brows rose at the admission and willed herself to remain silent.

Jon continued quietly, gazing at the snow covered terrain, looking without really seeing. “I would have Tormund succeed me and assume the reign as the wildling king. I know it sounds rather precarious, but looking past his bluster, Tormund would do well. He’s been among them is entire life and knows the ways of the wildlings better than I ever could. I haven’t asked him officially, but I know he would accept. Knowing that would make it easier to return to the North permanently and eventually propose. That’s assuming Sansa would accept.”

His little sister looked amazed. “You’ve really thought this through.”

Jon smiled ruefully. “I’ve had several months to think it over. There’s nothing more in this world that I want more than being her husband. It’s only…” he gave a vague nod to their surroundings. “With everything, it doesn’t seem like it would be the best time for me to propose. And then there’s the plan of sifting through the suitors.”

Arya smiled sympathetically. “Well, there is that.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “But Jon, has it ever occurred to you to do it anyway? Secret betrothals have happened before.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want it to be a secret. Sansa deserves better than that.”

“And you, too,” she reminded him. “Don’t forget your happiness, too, brother.” There was a brief silence that settled between them amongst the general chatter and clatter of early morning activity down below. They observed people going about their daily routines, knights in training heading towards the armory, merchants putting out their best produce, and women and children going from cart to cart, bundled in cloth and fur. A few men were tending to a large fire so that they could keep warm.

“By the way,” Arya spoke after a little while, “I am happy for you and Sansa. Really, I am. If there’s anyone who deserves a happy ending, it’s just the two of you. Things may be grim now, and perhaps they’ll get grimmer, but we’re Starks. It’s like father always told us. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. We’ll see this through.”

“Aye,” Jon murmured, his smile finally reaching his eyes. He pressed Arya’s hand on his shoulder underneath his and then the two headed for their daily tasks.

On the way down, she naturally couldn’t help herself. “That being said, you’ll need to keep away from each other until this mess is over. That means keeping your hands to yourself.”

Jon gave her an exasperated look but the smile remained. “You’re insufferable.”

Arya grinned. “So are you, especially when you’re broody.” She ducked out of the way as he reached to ruffle her hair. Despite the back and forth, he knew she was right. The best way to protect Sansa and to prevent anyone from finding out about them was to keep his distance.

Which is exactly what Jon told himself when he knocked on the door to Sansa’s chambers later that evening.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your periodic Darrick Merlyn visual:
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> You're welcome ;)

Ever since The Long Night, the people of Winterfell hosted a commemorative event on the eve and day of the battle between the living and the Night King. To honor the lives of the fallen, there was a solemn ceremony to remember the sacrifices of every woman and child. From the first lit torch in the early hours of the morning until dusk, there was a solemnity in the air. 

In the evening, there was a feast held very much in the same tones of the victory feast following the battle. More often than not, once stomachs were full and drinks continued to flow, there were always a few individuals who managed to join up and turn the feast into a dance. Tables and benches and chairs were pushed aside to make room. Those who knew how to play their instruments managed to pull them out of thin air to play spirited songs which never failed to make Sansa tap her feet discreetly in rhythm as she watched her people have a good time.

Only this time, she had all the more reason to be happy. She had her sister and Jon on either side of her, watching the spectacle with no small amount of amusement. Tormund sat on the other side of Jon and was in his usual boisterous form that it almost made Sansa regret having invited him to sit at their table. 

Only when Tormund was off to find himself another pint of ale did Sansa turn to Jon, her hand finding his discreetly underneath the table. “When are you going to pluck up the courage and ask me to dance?” she teased softly.

Jon couldn’t hold back a smile, even if he wanted to. Her fingers were working their magic along the back of his hand, caressing his rough skin with her soft, ladylike fingers. He suspected she had no idea of the effect she was having on him, but the lightness and somewhat mischief she had in her eyes, he was ready to second guess that suspicion. “I don’t dance, I’m afraid.”

Sansa pouted playfully, and there was nothing Jon desired more than to take that lower lip between his own. The thought was dispelled at the presence of Arya’s cheeky grin poking around Sansa’s seat to give him a look. “I suppose you’ll just have to wait for your suitors to do the asking. Or you could always ask them.”

Their sister’s voice had lowered considerably for that last statement but had been intentionally loud for the first, loud enough to be heard even over the music and overall raucousness. Jon simply gave Arya a look, which only made her grin even more. She looked as if she was going to say more when Lord Edmund arrived at their table.

“I couldn’t help but overhear a certain sister’s declaration of your desire for a dance partner,” he smiled charmingly, extending a hand. “May I have the honor?”

Feeling both Jon’s and Arya’s gazes on her, Sansa smiled up at Lord Edmund. “You may indeed.” She had been forced to retract her hand from Jon’s the moment he’d arrived at their table, so taking his now and rising to her feet proved less troublesome, at least from an appearances standpoint.

As Jon watched her go off with Edmund, he heard Arya murmur, “You snooze, you lose, brother.”

“Oh, shut up,” he muttered as he reached for his mulled wine and took a long drag. Despite his misgivings, Lord Edmund wasn’t a dishonorable man, which made it difficult for Jon to hate him on principle. 

In spite of the situation, he enjoyed watching Sansa enjoying herself, dancing and matching the rigorous dance steps with her partner, her people cheering her own around her. His heart warmed to see the people of Winterfell’s adoration for their queen. As song died down, the players quickly transitioned into another. Face red yet glowing from the dance, Sansa found herself switched over to Lord James, who good-naturedly cut into Lord Edmund’s attempt of another dance. Laughing breathlessly, she allowed herself to be swept away into another dance while expressing her apologies to Lord Edmund. It was all in good humor. 

For him in particular, he didn’t feel particularly threatened by the man even though he was one of Sansa’s suitors, nor did he feel particularly feel threatened by Lord James either. He knew nothing about Lord Daniel Rockwood, which did not rest well with him. 

The one that made him bristle and glower at the mere sight of was right at this very moment making his way over to Sansa just as the players began playing something much more languorous and slow. Seeing Ser Darrick almost within reach, Jon all but leapt to his feet, but Arya was quick to jerk him back down.

“Do you not remember what I said to you this morning?” she hissed out of the corner of her mouth. It was meant as a reprimand, but the noticeable upwards twitching of her mouth completely ruined the effect.

“Yes, I do, and you seem to be enjoying yourself,” Jon muttered back rather stiffly.

All she did was shrug, still struggling to conceal her amusement. When Darrick sidled his way into Sansa’s space with the grace of a slithering serpent, Jon stiffened even more and winced as Arya’s nails dug into the back of his hand.

From across the room, Sansa smiled upwards into the dark gaze of Darrick. Tonight he was as handsome as ever, though his hair was always wild and dark and still absurdly attractive. Similar to the rest of those in attendance, he had dressed rather informally, a simple white shirt tucked into a pair of dark breeches, yet the entire outfit made him look utterly sinful. Sweat glistening along his skin, it appeared Darrick appeared to have enjoyed a night of dancing of his own. 

Sansa surprised herself as a tiny burst of annoyance accompanied her curiosity over his dancing partners, knowing that all of them must have been women, but she was quick to push the thought aside, or so she tried. “Ser Darrick,” she addressed, her breathless state completely ruining the formality of the address. “I see you’ve been enjoying yourself this evening.”

“Ah, not quite yet, I’m afraid,” Darrick remarked. “Unless you grant me the honor of being your third dance partner of the evening, I’m afraid I’ll perish.”

The queen barely held back a snort but did nothing to conceal her laughter, to which he added rather dramatically, placing a hand over his heart, “You wound me with your mockery. Have I no place in your heart?”

“You’ve been spending much too long with Lord James and his antics,” Sansa remarked, not realizing the music had shifted to something far slower, more intimate. Nor had she realized his hands finding their way to lure her to him and the fact that she let him without thinking.

Darrick hummed thoughtfully, the vibrations rumbling against the queen’s chest, and oh, they were dancing after all. Sneaky, clever man. “Perhaps, perhaps not. Or have you forgotten all of my charms already?”

Sansa’s cheeks heated. She knew precisely exactly what he referred to and was quick to change to subject. Noting his hand in hers, she asked, “How has your hand fared since your accident?”

“It’s all but healed,” he replied, “all thanks to you and your generous kiss you bestowed upon it.”

Forgetting her place as queen, Sansa ducked her head a little, smiling to herself. How was it that Darrick made her forget herself and her position so easily? There was something about him that drew her to him, and she wasn’t entirely certain what it was. His handsome features and charming smile certainly helped, but there was an underlying connection she felt with him that she hadn’t really developed with her other suitors. That was what concerned her.

And one of the reasons why she had been avoiding being alone with him. Apparently, she had little control over her common sense whenever he was around, something that a queen should avoid at all costs, yet as a woman…

 _Stop it_ , she reminded herself silently, but when he crooked a finger for her to return his gaze, she found herself getting lost in his dark, brown eyes. His hand rested on her cheek, his thumb lingering at the corner of her mouth, so very daring and incredibly bold. Seven hells. 

She knew very well there were onlookers, one in particular she could once more feel burning along the back of her neck, yet she was unable to pull away from him. Damn this man and his stupidly handsome face and offensive charms.

Just the brush of his thumb against the corner of her mouth conjured back the memory of their kiss, something she often willed herself to forget and failing at nearly every turn. Her heart raced at the memory. It was as if she were reliving it right then, the press of his body against hers as they swayed to the soft stirrings of music hardly helped to draw her out of it. 

She was distracted by the look in his eyes and found herself asking, “What is it?”

Shaking his head lightly, Darrick mused, smiling to himself, “Nothing. It’s just… you should always look like this.”

“Like what?” she asked, curious.

“Happy,” he murmured softly. “You’re absolutely beautiful when you’re happy.”

Sansa felt a faint fluttering inside her chest. “You’re too kind,” she murmured, smiling despite herself. “Such a flatterer, you are, Ser Darrick.”

Smiling, he dropped his voice for her ears alone. “I’m much more than that.” And before she knew what was happening, his mouth was against her own.

The sounds of music and merriment faded into the background. Everything focused down to the press of his lips against hers. They had only kissed once before, but the act was still so familiar, so intimate it nearly had Sansa’s knees buckling. Somehow she found the fortitude to hold herself together. 

She didn’t even have to remember to keep up pretenses, for the sake of luring out the assassin. Kissing him back was instinct, an instinct she desperately wished wasn’t there yet it was. She couldn’t believe she was doing this, allowing him to kiss her so thoroughly in a room full of people, a non-Northerner, and outsider, yet there she was, incapable of thought or action beyond kissing him back.

For the briefest of moments, she felt a flicker of his tongue against her lips, but just as quickly it was gone. Their lips parted, only a hairbreadth apart, sharing the same breath. Sansa’s eyes opened at the same time as his did. In his eyes, there was unconcealed desire waging in his dark eyes. It was more than enough to make her feel weak.

As if sensing the effect he had on her, Darrick took a step back, reached for her hand to slip into the crook of his arm, but not before kissing the back of her hand, onlookers be damned. And then, because he could, he escorted the queen personally to her seat, uncaring of the looks and whispers going on around them. His eyes were only for Sansa and then for the someone right behind her as she sat.

Sansa looked behind her and was met with the stony expression on Jon’s face, his jaw ticking with barely controlled anger, none of which was directed towards her. She returned her gaze towards Darrick, who delivered Jon a completely innocent nod of acknowledgement, or at least it would have been if not for the less than subtle hint of triumph in his eyes.

“Now that I see you’re safely in good hands,” he remarked, “I suppose I should take my leave. Perhaps I’ll steal another dance from you before the evening’s over.”

“You’re pushing your luck,” Jon remarked through gritted teeth. He all but growled lowly at Darrick’s smirk and watched with increasing annoyance at his bold bow before he existed.

Sansa sat there, trying to process everything that just happened. And then there was Arya, savoring her mulled wine with great pleasure.

\---

_The best way to protect Sansa and to prevent anyone from finding out about them was to keep his distance._

Which was exactly what Jon told himself when he found himself in Sansa’s chambers later that evening.

The moment she let him in, Jon found himself in her arms. It was impossible to determine who initiated what happened next, but it hardly mattered. His mouth was on hers, hot, eager, and a hint possessive.

After witnessing Ser Darrick’s blatant public display of affection, it had taken every ounce of strength Jon possessed to not murder him on the spot. Jealousy, red hot and simmering, ran deeply through his veins. As he watched him kiss her, all he could think was “she’s mine.” 

He felt the primal urge to seize, to take, to claim. He was ashamed to say he had given over to his baser desires, but with her underneath him, back pressed against a wall with only his weight to support her, that was the furthest thing from his mind. 

Jon was angry, but he wasn’t angry with Sansa. He was angry about the situation. He was angry about the suitors, Ser fucking Darrick, about the threat to his beloved’s life. Everything had reached it’s boiling point, and now it was pouring into the kiss. And to his amazement, Sansa received it and returned his eagerness in kind.

He had arrived to find her in her night shift and nothing else. By gods, he had been driven mad with desire. She was so malleable underneath his touch. Whatever he gave, she took, and the same was for him, hands greedily roaming and exploring to their hearts’ content. 

Breathlessly, Sansa was murmuring how much she wanted him whenever she saw him around the castle, the courtyard, whenever they were never alone. Her words and mouth and body were threatening to overwhelm him.

Swallowing back a groan, Jon panted against her lips before giving her lower lip a loving nip, “Unless you’re willing to share your bed with me tonight, you should think carefully of which thoughts to share.”

Sansa kissed him before leaning back ever so slightly to look in him in the eye. “Who’s to say I’m not willing?” She arched against him then, Jon’s fingers gathering the material of her night shift in his hand, which was slowly, infuriatingly so, pressing upwards along her leg. When she suddenly shifted so that her thigh was pressed against his side, Jon went completely still.

He’d been hard since the first press of her body against his. She had to have already felt him before, but with her pressed so intimately against him, there was no way she couldn’t feel his erection pressing against her, hard, hot and all too ready. She licked her lips, and that was nearly his undoing.

As if just realizing what she was feeling, Sansa shuddered against him, both inhaling sharply at the contact. She knew why he wasn’t moving things further, and despite her initial annoyance, her gratefulness for his patience quickly overrode it all.

With the heat simmering just below the surface, Sansa spoke softly, trying to clear away the cloud of thoughts to remain coherent, “I… I admit that after Ramsey, I had never considered allowing another man to touch me. The thought… was almost too much to bear. But over the years, I found myself healing. And now… I believe I’m ready to take the next step, but I don’t want it to be with just anyone.” She touched his face tenderly. “I want it to be with you.”

Jon stared at her, awestruck by the woman in his arms. How could such a strong woman, after everything she had been through, be so willing to share this gift with him? His throat constricted with emotion, filled with so much love for this woman it nearly overwhelmed him. 

After taking a few measuring breaths, he touched her face gently. “I promise you, that when the time is right, I will make love to you in the way you deserve.”

“Now?” she asked, her eyes shining with eagerness.

Jon gave her a rueful smile, mentally kicking himself as he shook his head. “Not tonight. I think we should take this slow.”

Sansa whimpered in disappointment. Then his hand began inching higher underneath her night shift. Her disappointment evaporated, replaced by hope, prompting Jon to grin wolfishly. “I said taking things slow, not nothing at all.”

He took his time, too, Sansa noted much to her mild aggravation. Every inch of progress along her skin set her aflame. It felt like an eternity until his fingers rested near the apex of her thighs, which now quivered with anticipation. She wanted nothing more for him to take her to the bed, but they both knew that if that were to happen, it wouldn’t stop just there. And even though she couldn’t admit it to herself, she wasn’t fully there yet. But she knew she wanted this, more than anything.

Then his fingers found her center, tracing, stroking, rubbing experimentally. She whimpered, sighed, and groaned her approval, rocking her hips in time with every caress. She was driven half mad with his ministrations until his fingers finally entered her.

Gasping, she clenched her fists in his hair and kissed him as if he held the promise of everlasting life and she were dying. He returned her kiss with fervor, which inspired his fingers to gradually move faster and faster until she was a trembling mess in his arms, his beautiful mess. He managed to support all of her weight as she approached the edge, holding her steady as she finally tumbled over with sudden abandon.

“Oh my,” she murmured her breathing harsh and ragged. She trembled as she clutched to him and had absolutely no idea she was being moved until she felt herself being lowered to her bed. She pulled him forward and kissed him, soft, lingering, tender.

“Is… is that how it’s supposed to be?” Sansa asked, suddenly shy and innocent.

Jon ached for her, in more ways than one. How was he supposed to answer that? “Yes and no,” he answered honestly, stroking her sweaty hair away from her forehead. “It should always feel good, but it’s even better when it’s with someone you’re connected to, someone you love.”

Sansa smiled sleepily. It looked as if she wished to say more, but her eyelids were barely able to keep themselves open. He shushed her gently, urging her to sleep, and pressed his lips to her forehead. By the time he pulled back, Sansa was fast asleep.

Jon loathed to leave her, but he knew it would be best if he weren’t found in the morning. He rose and headed for the door. Besides, he wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight, if his current aching position was anything to consider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: All right for those of you who need clarification: this is a Jonsa fanfic. There is the element of romantic tension because of the suitors and one actually coming close to challenging Jon for Sansa’s affections. Yes, Darrick kissed her, and yes she kissed back. I’m sorry if some of you don’t care for it, but there is a reason it was written that way. I don’t want to spoil anything, but I want to let you know I have plans. And despite what some of you might think, Sansa does love Jon. This is their second kiss now, and she will obviously know that her attraction to Darrick pales in comparison to her love for Jon. I was hoping to have it be subtle and nuanced, but I guess it’s just not coming across that way. I’m sorry if my writing skills are limited, and I am by no way intending to sound passive aggressive.
> 
> I love you guys and your support means a lot! ❤️


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